What a Lovely Way to Burn
by Mira-Jade
Summary: "For a genius, he can be remarkably daft at times." Spock, Nyota, and the progression of a relationship.
1. A Year Marks the Day

**"What a Lovely Way to Burn"**

**Genre**: General, Romance  
**Rating**: T  
**Time Frame**: Post STXI  
**Characters**: N. Uhura, Spock

**Summary**: "For a genius, he can be remarkably daft at times." Spock, Nyota, and the progression of a relationship.

**Notes:** This is something that I have been working on for a few months now, and yesterday's release of the film made me get my butt in gear and start posting.

This is a collection of linear vignettes that progress through the first year of the _Enterprise's _five year mission, all exploring Spock and Nyota's relationship. The majority of these will be light, and either humorous or lightly romantic in nature. Drama for drama's sake, and outright angst will be posted elsewhere, for those of you who like that sort of thing. You know who you are. ;)

And as always, a huge nod of thanks goes to **Jade_eyes - **my beta reader, and the most accomplished shipper of my acquaintance. This beast would not live without you, hon!

Now that my rambling is complete . . .

**Disclaimer**: Star Trek does not belong to me. I am simply dabbling in their universe.

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**Part I.** _(A Year Marks the Day)  
_  
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It was remarkably quiet on the bridge.

They were between planets in a far out quadrant of known space. All around them stretched nothing, while the mass of far out stars formed a kaleidoscope of silver light on black as the ship traveled lazily at a low Warp. Between the patterns of starlight, swirling shades of nebula gas lingered – and they were about all that was available to look at. Even the comm lanes were silent this far out, minus the occasional transmission from a deep space trader or the occasional moon miner.

By all means, it should have been a peaceful scene, and yet, she was inexplicably jittery.

Her fingers tapped at her console, playing out a flustered little cadence, while her left leg was bouncing up and down from where she had crossed it over her right - hardly noticeable, she hoped; but it was unusually out of place to anyone who knew her. Her job, usually so calming, was not doing anything to help assuage her nervousness.

The Captain, from where he was playing with an old world yo-yo, and doing his best to try to talk his First Officer into playing a game of 'I Spy', noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His voice abruptly hit her, switching mid-sentence from where he was discussing the logicality of _"such a triviality of a pointless exercise"_ with Spock, to addressing her.

"So, Nyota."

There was a smile in his voice as he said her name.

She rolled her eyes, unseen by him, and vehemently wished that he would go back to his bickering/bantering session, and leave her in peace. "Yes, Captain?"

"You seem a bit flustered."

She willed her body into a state of calmness as she swiveled around in her chair. Raising a brow at the smirking man, she said, "I have no idea what you are referring to, sir."

"Sure you don't," Kirk agreed. "And yet, I am sure that I have detected no fewer than five sighs in the last three minutes. And . . . are you actually _bouncing_, Lieutenant?"

She glared at him. "I was neither bouncing, nor sighing, Captain."

Kirk glanced over to Spock, who was watching their interaction with a politely interested gaze. "C'mon and back me up on this – she was, wasn't she?"

Spock tilted his head, and then looked over at her. There was a very faint glimmer of concern in his mind, brushing past hers, and she tried her best to project as much calm and contentment as she could.

No use.

"All factors would point to a heightened level of stress," Spock honestly, and carefully spoke.

"See," Kirk said triumphantly, like a child whose parent had just intervened on their behalf. "You can't argue with that man's logic."

The look she gave him could have made a Klingon wither.

Kirk backpedaled. "I'm not saying that it's a bad thing. I'm just trying to look out for my crew, here."

Another stare. "Thank-you for your concern, sir, and yet - I am fine."

"You sure? 'Cause you know, Bones is one of the best docs in the fleet, so . . . if you feel like you're coming down with something -"

She sighed, and decided to give a bit. While she was just starting to get used to Kirk as an unexpectedly efficient leader and a surprisingly decent man; one month on the same ship with him was not nearly enough for her to go crying on his shoulder just yet.

"I'm merely tired, sir," she hedged. It wasn't completely a lie . . . it was simply just a side effect of a much larger issue.

And that was something, under no circumstances _ever_, that she would talk to Kirk about.

Ever.

Kirk smiled sympathetically. "There's going to be a lot of the same old, same old for the next few shifts. You're relieved from duty if you want to get some rest."

She taped her nails against her console, considering.

Kirk made a pointed motion with his yo-yo, drawing her eye to the skeleton crew that was manning the bridge at the moment. Behind him Spock nodded slightly when she caught his eye, making up her mind when she felt his concern once again loitering at the edge of her senses.

Better to be irritable and restless away from people, then.

"Thank-you, Captain," she said formally, placing her ear piece down, and moving aside for the ensign Kirk had called up to relieve her of her duties.

One last glance at Spock, and Kirk by extension, she made her way from the bridge with a barely audible sigh.

.

.

Kirk took a moment to watch Uhura walk from the bridge with an appreciative smile, before snapping around to meet the gaze of his First Officer. "C'mon, Number One, I have something to talk to you about."

Spock's stare was slightly withering. Kirk took a moment to wonder just how obvious he was about watching Uhura's departure before brushing the concern away.

"As you wish, Captain," Spock acquiesced, making a few last minute adjustments to his console, and then stepping to the turbolift. Kirk made quick work of giving away the con, and then followed him.

Spock was staring straight ahead when the doors swooshed closed. The electric blue numbers started to flicker in a soothing rhythm as the floors rushed by.

"So," Kirk started.

Spock raised a brow, waiting.

Going into this, Kirk knew what he wanted to talk about, but now that the moment was upon him, he really wasn't sure how to word what he wanted to say. It wasn't technically his place, or any of his business besides, but . . . Since when had that ever stopped him before?

Here went nothing . . .

"So," Kirk tried again, "today's a pretty big day, huh?"

Another raised brow. No further sign of recognition or agreement.

Kirk could work with that. "You'd agree, wouldn't you?"

"I have no idea what you are referring to, Captain."

Of course not.

"You know . . ." Kirk continued as casually as he could. "You . . . Nyota . . . hitting the one year mark . . . Truly an accomplishment there."

Spock's gaze turned from polite interest to hesitant curiosity. "I am personally aware of the date's significance, and yet I find myself curious as to how you came to be aware of such."

Kirk waved a hand. "Uhura. I was being annoying. She slipped."

Spock did not inquire further. Kirk wondered if he should be insulted that just that explanation was enough to make everything understandable.

Kirk tried not to sigh. "So . . . what are you doing to celebrate?"

A stare that Kirk was quickly coming to equate as a Vulcan version of an eye role was on him. "I was not planning on anything more than our usual routine, Captain, although I am not sure how that information would be of interest to you."

Kirk raised a brow of his own, and felt slightly triumphant at the gesture. "You're telling me that you're not doing anything different? Really?"

He could see the gears in his First Officer's mind whirling. Then, very hesitantly, Spock inquired, "Should there be something different?"

Kirk tried his best not to smile broadly. The question, while cornered into, spoke a bit of the point they had reached. Now, the next step would be for Spock to ask him that, and not sound so trepidatious about the outcome of his query.

"Of course there should!" Kirk informed him.

Spock blinked. "The observation of such dates is . . . important to humans?"

Kirk looked at him. "Of course it is." He brought himself short of actually asking if Amanda and Sarek had done something similar, but refrained. Instead, he boasted: "And thankfully, since you are in the presence of a master here, you have nothing to worry about."

Spock raised a brow – again. "You have often been to a point in a relationship where a full year's passing would need to be marked?"

Kirk faltered at the thinly veiled insult. "Um . . . no. But! One needs not have experienced something to be well versed in it. And if I'm well versed in something, it's women."

Spock took a second to consider, his head tilted as he brooded thoughtfully. Kirk had the faint impression that he was the last person that Spock wanted to talk to about this, and yet, his choices weren't very varied at the moment.

And then there was Uhura for him to consider. . . obviously out of sync the whole day through, wanting something but not precisely sure how to ask for it.

Kirk fought the urge to smile. Interspecies relationships were always interesting to watch as they unfurled. Humorous, as well.

Finally, Spock ended the war in his mind, and turned to face him as the turbolift doors hissed open. As they began walking together, he asked in a voice that he would usually save for his more complicated science experiments: "How would you go about observing such a date?"

Kirk fought the urge to draw this out, miking the situation for all that it was worth. He knew that a month ago, there would have been no question. But now . . .

"Okay, here's what you do," he started, his tone oddly focused. "She's not going to be expecting anything, right?"

Spock tilted his head. "We have not discussed the date's significance."

Kirk snorted. "You have a good woman there, let me tell you."

Spock looked at him oddly for speaking the obvious, and Kirk rushed on to continue before he could comment on it, "Anniversaries are usually marked by a few very trademark things. A fancy dinner, usually. And the exchanging of gifts. The gifts usually get more fancy as the year wear on – diamonds and gold are big hits with the girls. Flowers - chocolates even, would work here, especially since this is last minute. Next year you can get something fancy in advance."

Spock was nodding, his face oddly focused, giving Kirk the uncomfortable impression that every word he was speaking was being mentally recorded and systematically dissected.

If this ended up not going well . . .

Kirk pushed that thought away.

"Dinner, you say? We usually partake of meals together in the evenings."

Kirk sighed, remembering that he was dealing with a true novice here. "Yeah, but that's every day. Fancy dinners – you know, candles, china, crystal, music - the whole shebang. Something not replicated would be perfect . . . Can you cook?"

"I am proficient enough in the art."

Kirk snorted. Of course he was. "That's good. I've eaten Uhura's cooking with Gaila before, back at the Academy, and it was . . ." his voice tapered off, and he shuddered.

Spock did not argue the point with him at all. But he did not agree either.

Smart man, Kirk gave.

"And as for gifts," Spock continued, ". . . humans usually exchange dead plants with each other?"

Now Kirk was really starting to stare at Spock as if he was from . . . well, you get the idea. "Back up a second here," Kirk faltered incredulously. "You're really telling me that you've never bought her flowers before?"

"Should I have?"

Kirk smacked his head. "Man, be glad she sees something in you, really." He shook his head, one more time before collecting himself. "And yes, flowers are beautiful, smell good, and are simply a nice gesture – remember that one for when the fights get bad, too. They'll put you one step closer from getting out of the dog house."

"The dog house, Captain?"

Kirk waved a hand. "Figure of speech, Spock."

"Ah," the Vulcan gave, still puzzled.

"So . . . Dinner. Candles. Flowers. Gift. That should be enough for year one . . . you can get more creative over the years."

Spock nodded. "I do believe that that will be reasonable to accomplish."

Kirk smiled. "Good man. You'll blow her away."

Spock frowned.

"Figure of speech," Kirk explained again before the science officer could comment on it.

Spock nodded. His eyes were focused, his whole manner speaking of a tightly controlled tension – it was the same behavior he showed during a crisis, telling Kirk that he was completely out of his element. "Nyota," Spock started slowly, "did not inform me on any of these . . . rituals, and I will confess that I have little paid attention to other human couples. There was never any reason to do so."

Kirk fought the urge to smile at the unspoken question. "She probably did not want to make you feel uncomfortable. She's not the type of girl who will not ask for more than you're prepared to give."

Spock frowned. "And yet, her comfort brings my own. I am . . . thankful that you brought this to my attention, Captain."

"Any time," Kirk assured him, and surprised even himself at the sincerity in his own voice. He patted the Vulcan on the back, and fought the urge to laugh when he stiffened, and turned a pointed glance on him.

Kirk put his hands up. "Sorry. I just thought that we were at that place."

Another raised brow.

"That place, Captain?"

Kirk held up a hand. "Just forget I said anything."

Spock, with the same stare that he was really beginning to equate with and eye roll, shook his head. "Thank-you for the advice, Captain, I shall put it into practice."

Kirk did roll his eyes now. "Knock her dead."

Spock didn't even bother asking this time, didn't even think to, really as his mind wandered off to other more pressing matters.

Kirk watching him leave and, shaking his head slightly as he went over the last month in his mind.

Well . . . the man was a genius, but he sure could be a bit clueless at times.

With a bemused chuckle, he wished his new friend the best of luck.

.

.

Nyota had been in her quarters for a total of two hours and forty-seven minutes.

She'd tried everything she could think of to keep her mind busy – ancient translations, music, listening through transmissions from home. She'd even tried picking up the few things strewn about her otherwise immaculate quarters.

. . . she'd ended up curled in bed, one of Spock's forgotten uniform shirts balled up as a pillow under her head. She was being ridiculously sentimental, she knew. And yet the knowledge of how illogically her mind was treating the whole situation only served to make her mood even darker.

She could have told him, she knew. She could have told him about the silly human tradition, and he would have embraced it, she knew. He would have been perplexed, and awkward, but he would have done it for her.

. . . she just didn't know precisely how to ask.

She, who knew a dozen upon dozens of alien tongues, and could figure out dozens more as she went along, was not quite sure how to talk to him.

She had an odd moment of wishing that Gaila was alive. For all of her wantonness, her Orion roommate had really known how to get to the heart of things when it came to relationships . . . interspecies relationships especially. She would have been a truly admirable Counselor . . . if she could get past the whole sleeping with those who needed her help.

The thought made Nyota snort with an empty humor, rolling her eyes at the memory of her friend.

She was about to make the final desperate, time honored tradition of lunging for her hidden stash of Betazoid chocolates when the computer chimed that there was an incoming message for her.

With a disgruntled sigh, and a longing glance at the drawer that contained the hidden delicacy, she turned over and sat up. "Computer, accept incoming transmission," she muttered glumly as she shoved the uniform top under her pillow in order to hide it from view.

Spock's face appeared on the monitor on the wall.

She sat up straighter, and forced a smile.

"Ah, you are awake," he said, sounding pleased.

"Yeah," she gestured in the affirmative. "Your shift over?"

"Yes," he replied. "Actually, I was contacting you in order to ascertain your availability for the evening."

She looked at him blankly. They usually spent their time after their shifts together . . .

Right now though, she just wanted to curl up with some sweets and a good black and white holo.

She shrugged. "Not much is happening," she told him, just an edge of bitterness in her voice.

Spock seemed pleased. "Could I request your presence within the next quarter hour?"

She nodded, feeling a slight warning bell go off in her mind. While not fully bonded, their minds were close enough that she could sense his emotions when he wasn't actively screening them . . . and right now she wasn't picking up anything from him . . . even though his image fairly radiated as much anticipation as he was apt to show.

Something was up.

Narrowing her eyes, she said, "Yeah, I'll be there."

"Perfect. I shall see you then."

His image winked out, and she took a moment to stare at the monitor, her thoughts whirling in a thousand directions. She darted a glance at the drawer and it's chocolates, thought for just a second, and got to her feet with a sigh.

This had better be good.

She took five minutes to wash up and change into a fresh uniform. She waited precisely fourteen minutes to head out of her quarters.

. . . not that she was being childish or anything.

. . . because she wasn't.

. . . on second thought, maybe she should have broken into the chocolates before she came . . .

With a sigh, she waved her hand through the chime outside of his suite, and the doors immediately swished open to allow her entrance. She hesitated a moment, took a deep breath against the heavy feeling that was collecting in her gut, and then headed in.

As soon as she passed through, the coolly circulated air around her turned into a thousand bewitching scents in her nose. Her eyes widened as she fell up short.

She stopped.

She stared.

. . . and she stared some more.

At first she didn't even look up. The lights were dimmed, and the soft glow of candlelight flickered around the entire room. She stared down at her bare arms, entranced by the patterns the dancing flames made. Around her hung the bewitching aroma of her favorite Mediterranean dishes – oils and garlics and pine nuts crusted over chicken and rice and salads.

She smiled at the giddy feeling that welled up inside of her as understanding lapped gently at her consciousness.

She clasped her hands together in front of her mouth, casting her eyes from one point of the sitting room to the next with greedy eyes.

The low sitting table, usually commandeered at this hour by both his work and hers was covered with an immaculate spread – graceful flutes of an amber colored liquid, and sprigs of baby's breath intermixed with pale pink rose buds (real, honest to goodness flowers!) resting in a crystal vase that threw the candlelight this way and that.

Candles . . . there were hundreds of them, lingering in strategic alcoves and standing on gently twining stands everywhere. There was an eye for design, coupled with elegance and simplicity in the placements, and the thought put into it touched her more than a room full of rose petals ever would.

From hidden speakers, she could hear old world Terran jazz filling the air. She swayed slightly, closing her eyes to the familiar notes of 'Fever', humming the lines under her breath. It had been the song playing at the jazz club outside of San Fransisco the first time he had officially taken her out on a date – the day that she marked as the beginning of their relationship. He had asked her to dance, and surprised, she had acquiesced. Her amusement at him leading through the song's sultry steps had faded by the time she realized just how right him with her felt.

_A lovely way to burn_, indeed.

That was the day that they remembered now.

To top everything off . . . there was cheesecake in the next room.

She smiled smugly, mentally laughing in the face of the temptation that the paltry bag of chocolates had held for her earlier. And at the edge of the table, actually shuffling his weight from one foot to the next was Spock. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he was staring straight ahead, but she could see how strained his posture was, and how his hands were held more tighter than could pass for normal . . .

He was nervous. The tight leash he had held on his emotions through the day slipped a little as she once again felt his mingled hesitance, anticipation, and pride. And, alongside all of that, there was such a searing feeling of adoration that she could feel so strongly that she once again wondered at it coming from him rather than from her.

She smiled broadly at the feeling, not hesitating to wear her heart on her sleeve to assure him of how much she appreciated the lengths he went to for her.

"You remembered!" She tried not to gush, she really did, but the drugging cocktail of emotions running through her made it next to impossible for her to hide how truly touched she was at the moment.

He inclined his head, a blush staining the tips of his ears green as he hedged, "While I remembered the date's significance . . . I shall admit that this was not what I had in mind when I started the day."

She blinked at him. "You didn't?" she asked, confused.

The nervousness was more pronounced. "As your . . . discomfort became known throughout the day, a mutual friend informed me of the human custom of observing such anniversaries."

She made a mental note to thank Kirk, even as she stepped over to Spock. Without speaking, she wrapped her arms around him, and rested her head against his chest. As always, it took merely a second before he relaxed enough to return the embrace; resting one hand at her hip and another high on her back, tangling with the trailing tendrils of her hair.

"You didn't have to do this for me," she whispered against his shirt.

His grip tightened on her, just noticeably. "Yes. I did," he uttered softly. "While there are many . . . differences between us, I never want you to believe that I do not put every highest regard onto our relationship. If candles and chocolates and roses reassure you of this, then that is what I will do." He tilted her head to look into her eyes. The honesty she saw shining past the carefully blank pools of sepia touched her as it always did. "However, do not doubt that just because I did not immediately perform such gestures, that this day's importance was not at the forefront of my mind."

She was going to turn into a large, sloppy melted puddle of goo in just a moment. She really, really was.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to control the mad swirl of tap dancing butterflies, spinning out of control somewhere right next to where her heart was. Perhaps . . . in a relationship such as the one she was in, the rarity of statements such as these only made them that much more powerful when spoken. That much more true and infinitely dear.

She smiled crookedly. "You could have settled for simply saying 'Happy Anniversary," she told him, trying to quell the frantic flutters of her heart.

He raised a brow. "And then I would be left with a surplus of cheesecake on my hands," he drawled. His hands came up her body to grasp her own, holding them tenderly, brushing his thumbs back and forth over her skin. She was familiar enough with the motion to know that he was taking every moment to imprint the myriad of thoughts and emotions running throughout her mind with the touch.

"We couldn't have that now, could we?" she quipped.

"It simply wouldn't do," he agreed.

Still smiling, she stood up on the tips of her toes to kiss him quickly, and then he led her to the table, even going as far to pull out her chair for her and serve her personally. Some of his movements were awkwardly hesitant, and while a good many of them spoke of last minute coaching, enough of them were so purely _him_ that she couldn't stop smiling inside the whole evening through.

One year, she couldn't stop thinking delightedly. One year, and they had come so far. The path had not been smooth, by any means, human stubbornness coupled with Vulcan pride and simple cross communication being what they were . . . and yet, there had been enough moments like this along the way to make everything truly worthwhile.

Sighing deeply, she met his eyes over the candles, and happily looked forward to another year of moments just like these.

**.**

**~MJ**

**.**


	2. My Sympathies to the Goldfish

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who took the time to leave your thoughts! You really do make writing a joy. Once again, a huge thanks to Jade_eyes for looking this over.

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**Part II:** _"My Sympathies to the Goldfish"_

.

During her time at the Academy, Nyota had not once thought to appreciate the sea of students surrounding her. There was always an anonymity to be found when sought; something cold and almost impersonal about being one face amongst the masses. In terms of talent and determination, it was something she had always fought to rise above. And yet, in the case of her personal life, it was something that she didn't realize that she used to further her intensely private personality.

Now, after almost two months as one of the Enterprise's senior officers, she had little to no anonymity to hide behind. Which was . . . odd.

Back at the Academy, her relationship with Spock had been an intensely private thing – clandestine, almost – a secret known only by a select few senior officers (like Pike) and also Gaila (who was too smart for her own good about some things). Her own family had not even been privy to the information, such was the discretion they were implementting.

And now . . . nothing was sacred. Everyone knew. _Everyone_.

At first, others having knowledge of her affairs had been confusing. She and Spock had never been nothing more than professional in public, and never had they given anyone cause for suspicion . . . Well, except for that kiss in the transporter room, but only Kirk had seen that. Kirk and Scotty. Kirk, she knew, would keep his mouth shut. After all, while the man was an overgrown child and all-around flirt, he knew where the lines were drawn . . . most of the time, anyway. At the time, she had not even thought to worry about Scotty. _Scotty_. Who, apparently, could gossip like a Cambrian schoolgirl.

Unknown to her, the whole of the ship knew about her relationship with Spock within two days after the _Enterprise_ leaving Earth. Apparently, news of that nature – usually of the sort to fizzle and fade due to lack of interest within days - was expounded and drawn out by the parties in question. And really . . . were they that shocking? Apparently, she had developed somewhat of a reputation of being untouchable, and Spock was . . . well, _Spock_.

She had had the first inkling of her secret's unveiling by little things. There had been an odd look here and there – a female ensign who sighed rather dreamily upon passing her (the sort of sigh that simpering girls may utter at the end of a romance novel) and a curious look from a member of the security squad whom she had turned down in second year . . . And then there was the odd sort of glances that she received in the halls that passed between her and Spock and back again.

Between her and Spock . . .

Absolute confirmation had came when she had sat down with him in the mess hall after one shift, not even a week after leaving Earth. Spock had been shuffling with an odd sort of restlessness. The back of her mind held a strange sort of thoughtfulness that she knew to consume his mind at times. She had been content to wait him out, sure that he would speak his mind in time.

Sure enough, he did.

"I had a fascinating conversation with Lt. Richardson," he started out carefully.

"What about?" she prompted carefully. She knew the up and coming science officer in question.

There was just a second's hesitation that normally would have been absent. "He stopped me today to offer his congratulations."

She raised a brow. "What for?"

There was a slight narrowing of his eyes as he ended whatever mental war he had been waging. "He had congratulated me on our relationship. Apparently, you were somewhat of a 'tricky catch' back at the Academy, and he saw fit to offer his . . . admiration."

Nyota nearly choked on the tea she was sipping. "He what?!" Her voice rang higher than it normally would, drawing attention to their table. Just then, she noticed that there had already been more than the usual pairs of eyes trained on them from the moment they had entered the mess hall.

Her skin began to crawl uncomfortably.

"He knows?" she questioned in a smaller voice.

Spock was looking at her levelly. A faint sort of humor brushed against the back of her mind as he took her question for the rhetorical. "His knowledge, coupled with other . . . incidents over the last few days, would point to the fact that the knowledge is shared by . . . several."

Her eyes narrowed as she locked gazes with several of the bold who were still staring over at them. She had the intense pleasure of seeing a few cower away. "Gossips," Nyota mumbled glumly into her tea.

"So it would seem," Spock said, that same level tone in his voice.

She was suddenly not so hungry. "Come on," she tried to keep her voice bright. "I'm starting to feel like a goldfish here." She got to her feet, pleased to see that Spock looked as if he were waiting for her to do just so.

"A goldfish?" he questioned as they made their way to the exit.

The stares behind her burned. She held her head up higher. "It's an old phrase," she explained with a slight smile. "When everyone's watching you, sometimes you feel like a goldfish in a glass bowl."

"Ah," Spock said upon understanding. A moment of silence passed. "My sympathies to the goldfish." And then he was silent.

Over the next few weeks, it got better. Minus a small quip here and there from Kirk (which was expected) and a stray glance here and there (some curious, some even envious – she had a great time explaining _those_ particular glances to Spock), they were left in peace, and a part of her found a peace with the knowledge being out in the open. A part of her was even grateful. Things were suddenly smoother now. Her worry was not so tangible, her motions were not so forced when in the company of others. While they were still the ideal of professional, there was less stress in being so – she could hold his gaze for as long as she wanted, and could even brush her hand across his whenever she walked a bit too close to his station than could be needed. It was strangely liberating.

Or, at least, it would have been . . . If he was more cooperative.

This was an unforeseen complication.

Anyone who met them, would never accuse them of being anything more than completely professional – it was something that she prided herself on, and she knew that it was something that he held in high regard as well. But this . . . it was unexpected. Already the collective around them was starting to feel more like a close knit unit than any military institution, and she was quite comfortable holding his hand when the halls were empty, or openly referring to her relationship with him while in the presence of others, he was strangely . . . not. He acted as he had when their relationship was still under wraps – perfectly professional and perfectly poised.

And it was starting to get to her.

While it took her a while to warm up to people, those she held in her confidences she was extremely affectionate with. She was fiercely loyal, and she was fiercely protective. And she was never afraid to show that.

Back at the beginning of their relationship, she had accustomed herself to playing the role of teacher. While she had known that she had cared about him for some time before actually 'seeing him', their initial relationship was almost clinical when it came to physical contact – as was to be expected. She was his aide, and his culture made anything else out of character in any case. And yet, too many almost moments and near misses had then culminated in a kiss that was too long in the making – admittances had came after that, and she had been greatly relieved to find that her affections were returned.

Even then, he had treated her as if she were made out of glass. She had been resolute to show him where the lines were drawn . . . or, in this case, where the lines were absent . . . Showing him, that yes – he could hold her hand when they walked on the beach after their first outing(date – her words, not his), and yes, he could kiss her whenever he wanted, and no – he never had to ask.

It had been a bit . . . interesting, at times, but the results had been every inch worthy of her patience.

Now would just be like that, just more . . .

She started at his back from her station, and the grin that threatened to touch her lips could only be described as determined.

.

.

In the beginning, she had chosen her moments well.

They were in a sweeping region of space, the stars flooding by in silver waves from beyond the view-port as they passed the infinity in merely seconds. She had her hands full of a stack of PADDs that were intended for Kirk, (whose face had gone white upon seeing them – while he had adjusted well to the role of Captain, there were some things that he still took like a child. Paperwork being one of them.) and was juggling them as best as she could.

"Pardon me, Commander," she said, her voice rich with a professional courtesy, "but could you assist me with these? I think that I overestimated the load."

"Certainly," was the smooth reply, and then a moment later, the entirety of the burden was taken from her.

As he moved to turn from her, she shifted her hand slightly so that her fingers brushed his knuckles. Her first finger and middle finger were braced in an imitation of a Vulcan's kiss, and she knew that the significance was not lost on him.

He was very stiff for a moment, before nodding at her.

"Thank-you, Commander," her voice was only slightly lower than usual.

He refused to meet her eyes. "The pleasure is mine, Lieutenant."

From his seat, Kirk's eye roll was not lost on either of them.

.

.

They were at the planet Scalla III when they took their first shore leave. The world was rich in trade and amusements, and it catered to the higher classes as its arts were particularly renowned. Their theater was unparalleled by none other in the galaxy, as their race had a propensity for pitch and harmony that had them heralded as angels from Earthen lore.

She took the opportunity to forsake her dress uniform in preference of one of the few evening gowns she had with her. The number she wore was black and sleeveless and elegant, (Gaila's . . . _interesting _taste put to good use, for once) and she finished it off with long satin opera gloves that went past her elbows, and her k'lar stone necklace that Spock had given her at their relationship's start.

Kirk had gagged good-naturedly when he saw the destination they had in mind, all before dragging a reluctant McCoy (playing the wingman as always) in the direction of the more fast paced night life. She wasn't sure if the look on McCoy's face was either pleading or envious.

Either way, she had been relieved when they had arrived in the cool expanses of the auditorium. She was a fan of opera in all of its forms, and she knew that Spock was as well. This was an experience that she particularly wanted to savor.

Their honored positions in Starfleet had afforded them box seats, courtesy of the planetary leaders that they were conversing with for the mission's cause, and this was one perk that she had greedily snatched up on. From the seats they had a clear view of the orchestra bearing alien instruments, and the beautifully painted chorus members who floated about the stage. It was a spectacle that none on Earth could compare to.

Across the way, she could see some of her shipmates in a few of the other boxes. A few of them were watching her through oldworld opera glasses, and waved when they picked up upon her notice. If a few of the gazes rested a little longer on her escort, there was nothing but curiosity about their looks.

Spock, at her side, sat up that much straighter. The scant few inches between them became that more pronounced.

While she understood . . . she also wanted things differently. So, when she slowly reached for his hand (giving him enough time to refuse her, should he so desire) she could admit that she was relieved when he let her hold his hand on the armrest between their seats.

There was a small smile to the gazes watching them.

A second later, he threaded his fingers through hers, and squeezed once. Gently, as always.

She had to fight from being ridiculously proud of herself as the overture struck its first few chords around them.

.

.

After their secret was out, she found, to some surprise, that most people were generally happy about it, (many could be heard saying that 'it was good for _him_', and it now made sense of a few of the rumors about _her_) or generally uncaring, not being close enough to the situation to offer their opinion.

And yet, there were always a few loose tongues with even smaller minds, who did not have positive opinions. These, were ignored, for the most part. And yet, there were always those few who were too vocal for their own goods. These were harder to ignore.

They were in the mess hall at a small table in a dimmer corner, both with PADDs out and cooling cups of tea untouched beside them. From a few tables over she could hear Nurse Katelyn (a girl she had tutored in Harmonic Phonology) and Ensign Reed (a man whom she had turned down more than once, whose insistence was more . . . unsettling than Kirk's had been playful) talking in snide whispers.

_"Really, her and him? You've got to be kidding me?"_ This was the bubble headed bleach blonde who couldn't translate a rhyming verse if her life depended on it._ "Makes me thankful that she turned me down. She's used goods of the worst kind." _This was the man whose stare she could feel burning into her back. A part of her felt a bit queasy at the unchecked appraisal, while another part of her wondered how someone with such blatant prejudices could have made it this far in Starfleet. Did he not know what he was signing up for?

Across from her, Spock's gaze was trained on her with an unquestioned concern. In the back of her mind she could feel his probe, and she let slip her reservations and more . . . nauseating opinions of the Ensign in question.

She could feel his gaze harden, his normally soft eyes turning black and sharp. When she looked up, Spock was staring over at Reed with an expression that she had never seen on him before.

When he reached across the table to take her hand without her prompting, she squeezed back gratefully without having to be offered twice. A small part of her soared at the small action, and nothing could cut through her high spirits the whole day through.

.

.

They aided the planet of Hart a month later, and were treated to a banquet at the end of their assistance. The dress uniforms were brought out for the occasion – perfectly stiff and starched, and every bit uncomfortable. She forgot her own discomfort though, when Jim's rather pointed opinions were made clear by him repeatedly tugging at the clasps of his cuffs, and at the constricting neck of his uniform. Spock held his own with grace and ease, and raised a brow at Jim's pointed remarks on the required attire.

She fought a smile of her own the whole evening through, one that finally spilled over when a few of the dignitaries took to dancing upon the ballroom floor when the orchestra struck up a waltz. Kirk made an elaborate bow to her, looking as if he would ask her to dance before changing at the last minute to ask the Prime Minister's wife – with whom he would have better luck.

Her eyes rolling was completely out of reflex, to be sure.

When Spock turned to her and offered her his arm, she accepted and let him lead her to the floor. She knew that he could dance – much better than she, to be sure, and early memories of him teaching her the waltz in question in the privacy of his quarters came back to her. A smile threaded onto her lips as she remembered the . . . endearing number of times she had stepped on his toes.

The same memory was at the forefront of his own mind, for a moment later he softly said, "Your step has greatly improved since the last time we danced."

"I had a good teacher," she responded, eyes flashing impishly.

"I can see," he returned in time, and she felt a soft sort of humor at the back of her mind.

He was dancing with her at arms length, his hand on her waist barely grazing the fabric of her uniform in order to guide her. The shoulder underneath her left hand was tense.

She took a step closer to him, putting herself in the shadow of his body. Her hand in his tightened, ever so slightly. A moment passed. When she leaned her head on his chest, his hand tightened over hers, just once.

But he did not step away.

.

.

And even if in front of others he was reserved, at other times he was not. And his affection was shown in smaller, less obvious ways.

She awakened every morning to find her coffee out and prepared next to his customary tea. (She finds herself remembering the first and last time she introduced him to the brew, and the disgust on his face. Telling him that it was an acquired taste did little to help when it became apparent that caffeine had . . . ill effects on a half-Vulcan system.) He always awakened a few hours before her to meditate, but she recalls him pressing a kiss to her brow before leaving her almost every morning. She showers while he finishes up, and the scent of incense lulls her along with the hot spray.

When their shifts don't overlap, she comes to her station to find notes left in her inbox, wishing her a fond day. On other days, when they serve together, he will sometimes press two fingers against her hand like she did that first time whenever he was close enough to her. This is a habit that he has kept and continued, and it warms her heart every time.

They eat their meals together, and while he spares a glance for the security cams before he enters her quarters, he does not look at her any differently. After their anniversary he kept to the habit of bringing her flowers from whatever planet they were in orbit over. When asked, he quietly said that his mother would always press flowers from the worlds she visited with his father. When this information was revealed she took the blush toned Jordanian blossoms he had given to her, and pressed them between two heavy manuals in a dark corner of her closest – indulging in frivolous sentimentality, and all that.

And when he whispers _'Ashal-veh' _in her ear every night before she falls asleep, she thinks that it is an arrangement she can most definitely live with.

.

.

After two months, her efforts came to a crescendo with their affairs on the planet Cassius Minor. The planet was on the edges of known space, one that had ties with the Federation years back, but had lost contact after some severe planetary alterations. The planet was off its orbit, and had become unstable to sustain most humanoid life. As Cassius' population had left, the rest of the contact had fallen into obscurity. It should have been a routine check – readings and what not, assistance to any who remained and so forth.

The mission had taken a turn south when they discovered a small contingent of people upon the planet's surface. The group was maddened – driven insane by the harsh conditions and the isolation. Even from her post just listening to the goings on, she felt herself shiver as she witnessed a violent extremity of human emotion that she was not before privy to.

She knew that things had gotten violent – she could hear it, could feel the rise of adrenaline in Spock through the bond she shared with him . . . There had been no security detail with them when they beamed down, seeing as how it was a scientific stop primarily, and now it was left to the three of them to fend for themselves.

She had been all nerves as she listened – a shout there, a shot fired there, a scrape of fist and a rustle of cloth and a grunt of pain . . .

Nyota was there to greet the away party when they return, bouncing restlessly on the balls of her feet with worry defining every flicker of her eyes across the readouts at the control terminal.

When three forms materialized from rings of gold, she covered the distance between them in three quick strides. If he was surprised at her presence, he made no sign of it, and while he was stiff when she threw her arms around him, he did not push her away. He patted her once, awkwardly, his gaze no doubt on the battered, but amused Captain and McCoy.

Feeling her cheeks flame red, she released him and stepped away with her hands at her sides. Spock was very still, his eyes watching her carefully.

When Kirk and McCoy turned to make their way out, she went to follow. Her progress was stopped though when Spock reached out to take her arm and pull her rather sharply to him. A moment later he kissed her, short but hard, as if he were trying to breathe the air from her body before he released her. There was an apology in the brush of his mind against hers, but it was unnecessary. She was already grinning like a loon.

. . . as was Kirk, from where he had turned back to see what was keeping them.

Spock held his head up high, and continued walking to the bridge as if nothing had happened.

When Kirk made some fairly alluding comment a half an hour later, Spock's reply was a crisp and _pointed_ relay of the ion readouts from the surrounding space. Kirk was quick to hide his smile behind his hand, but his eyes betrayed him when he looked over at her.

She rolled her own before turning back to her station. In the back of her mind she could feel Spock's mortification, but there was a peace to it. Peace, and a small beginning of humor as he fed off her own emotions.

When she turned her head, just slightly, to look over at him, she found that he was already staring at her.

With a mental grin, she marked it down as a mission accomplished.

.

**~MJ**

**.**


	3. In all These My Memories are Kept Alive

**Author's Note: **Some more fluff here. The next few will have a little more(lots more) in the term of plot. For now, it cannot be helped . . . I'm sure you won't mind too much, though.

As always, a big old thanks to** Jade_eyes **for looking this over for me.

* * *

.

**III: "**_In all These My Memories are Kept Alive"_

.

He remembers that day with a clarity that he had initially found curious.

It had been a day the last year prior, during their time back at the Academy, on the last Sunday of the winter relief from classes. It had been on a crisp morning when Nyota had just returned from a week spent in Nairobi, where she had been visiting the family that she had not seen since the summer.

She had been fluttering around her half of the dorm room, muttering muffled complaints about the thin layer of frost that coated the Bay area in the small hours of the morning. While it would be gone by noon – the very worst of the Californian winter, that didn't stop the fact that she was freezing _now_, and quite vexed about the fact that the rest of the planet didn't hold the rather warm temperatures of the native home she had just returned from.

He had let her rant without commenting. He didn't even move to change the climate controls to something more comfortable for her; somewhat content in the moment to watch her with a greediness that he found surprising. They had only spent a week apart, and yet it pushed at something inside him that went human and deep. While the sensation was curious, he found that he did not care for it, at all.

And if the way her eyes continually flickered to find his spoke of her own feelings, he knew that she missed him as well.

It was oddly . . . satisfying.

Uhura's search for a more comfortable sweater had led her through this and that – unopened boxes of possessions from her days before the academy, and a box with a stringy bit of oddly cut animal printed material that had Nyota flushing a dark shade of scarlet as she muttered "Gaila" under her breath like a curse.

He found it wise not to ask at times.

Her hunting through the closet led to her bringing out something that she had never intended for him to see. He had been aware of something initially being wrong when she drew up short, her good natured tirade of words cut off by the quick intake of a sharply drawn gasp. He had looked past her, to the floor of the closet, and yet he could not find the reason for her silence, nor the reason for the flood of feelings he felt when he pressed his hand against hers and muttered, "Nyota, what is it?"

She looked over at him with a small smile, her eyes turning slightly misty with an emotion that he could not quite read, even after all of his time spent on Earth.

"It's just something silly," she muttered.

He tilted his head, drawing a wider smile from her as she patted his hand. "I'm sorry - I'm going all human on you."

He still didn't understand her reaction. "What is it that drew this reaction?" he asked.

With a small, secret sort of look, she moved to draw out a box from the corner of the closet. "I have to hide this from Gaila," she explained the precarious placement. "She would never let me hear the end of it."

If anything, he was even more confused – another sensation that he didn't much care for.

After fighting a bit around various items – a strange combination of meticulous order and chaotic clutter, she came out holding a wooden chest with bold earthen red stains in ornate patterns. The wood was meticulously crafted, with fine patterns engraved into the side, giving it a dated, ancient sort of feel.

"The box itself was a gift from my father," she explained, all the while holding the chest to her with a reverent sort of look about her eyes – a look he was quickly learning was only trained on selected things like cheesecake or a rather excellently scored essay. (If he were honest with himself, he knew that he had been on the receiving end of those looks more and more often as of late.)

"This," she continued in a rather low whisper, "is my you-box."

He did not confess to understanding right away.

Her smile grew more sly - childish even, as she went to sit on her bed next to him. The bed dipped comfortably under her weight, and he moved slightly in order to give her ample space, not, of course, so that he could shadow his body around hers. She didn't comment, but that same smile was growing.

He waited, expecting an explanation, and yet Nyota seemed content to run her hand on the grooves of the box almost fondly. After a moment her eyes met his. Figuring that the most apt explanation would be to actually_ see_ what she meant, she thumbed open the top with a gentle move, one long eased over time. Curious, despite himself, he took his eyes away from her, and peered inside.

It was . . . nothing, really.

A collection of odds and ends, bits and pieces that would be classified as insignificant to someone unaware of their meaning. He, though, after a few moments of reflecting, understood.

Nyota's joy, meanwhile, had faded to something a lot like trepidation. "It's ridiculously sentimental, I know," she went on to explain herself, a familiar red coming to stain her cheeks again. "It just helps to have something tangible sometimes."

He was silent as he reached into the box, and sorted through the objects inside, something warm blooming next to the curiosity that had yet to fade away.

Nyota chewed on her bottom lip, still watching him. "It's not like I could keep a picture of you," she said softly, " . . . discretion, and all that."

He nodded his understanding, slightly overwhelmed.

Inside, the odds and ends were all things that were remnants of their time together. Little things – like an essay that he had marked with a particular vigor a few years ago (not understanding his feelings at the time, he had spent extra long judging her, marking her words until there was more red than anything else. He is surprised that she has kept this.), and a take-out menu from an Indian restaurant on the edge of the city. (Before they had embarked on a tentative relationship, during her time as his TA, she would often come into his office with different sorts of human cuisine, determined to find something he liked. This was her first attempt.) There were other things – ticket stubs from the orchestra, and brochures from museum tours (places where it was not odd for them to be seen together in groups). Smaller, more intimate things were there as well – a polished piece of k'lar stone from Vulcan that he had given her on a silver cord (the matching piece to the earrings she wore constantly), and moving holos from a picture booth (all with her doing most peculiar things such as 'bunny ears', and with him looking at her with a surprising tenderness in his expression.)

Other things were more obvious – one of his forgotten uniform tops that she had claimed as her own, and correspondences printed onto flimsi and bound with thick red ribbon. (While never one to write love letters, he is quite guilty of using the inner system to communicate with her throughout her day. This, she had said, was something infinitely more dear.) There were shells from the beach they had walked down after their first official date (a dinner spent at an old Terran Jazz Club. He remembered her insisting that he take off his boots to walk in the surf. Her actions, while illogical, had filled him with a rising feeling of something he had been unable to define at the time. As she had predicted, the combination of the steadily babbling waves and the cool night sand had been . . . pleasant. Even more pleasant had been the joy written clearly on her face.)

He clasped one of the shells fondly in his hand, thumb and forefinger smoothing over the worn down edges that had been smoothed by a lingering touch many a time before.

He thinks, in that moment, that he understands the human tendency to collect . . . mementos.

He closed his whole fist over the delicate shell, and then gently placed it back into the velvet lined boxed.

Next to the shells there was a computer chip. Nyota smiled when he puzzled over the decidedly older piece of technology.

"Gaila teased me so badly about playing those jazz tracks so often that I finally took them off the computer," Nyota explained with a fond smile.

She took the small chip, and got to her feet. Oddly enough, he missed her warmth. She gently inserted the chip into the terminal on the wall, and happily instructed the computer to play track three.

He tilted his head at the familiar lyrics, a track saved to his playlists as well – an oddity amongst the more classical composers he usually preferred.

She curled up next to him again, this time leaning her head on his shoulder, and wrapping an arm around his side. "So, am I ridiculously sentimental?"

_Not at all. _

And yet, he was not precisely sure how to voice that.

Instead, he replied: "The memories that these objects provoke are . . . pleasing. I understand your logic behind the collection."

While somewhat stale to human ears, she understands the sentiments behind his words – something welling tender and deep that she doesn't yet expect him to understand. He appreciates her for that.

And so much more.

He twined his hand with hers, feeling her emotions – all unchecked joy swirling alongside endearment, and he once again wondered how she functioned with all of that running so strongly right under her skin.

For now, though, he was content to cut his wondering short and simply enjoy a few hours with her before her roommate returned.

Nyota never did find her sweater that morning. Somewhere through their sorting through the box and it's contents, she had commandeered the top layer of his uniform shirt, insisting that it was quite warmer than anything she had.

He didn't fight her, enjoying the lightness of the moment more than he had thought he would.

Later, when he took a hair tie from her dressing table on his way out, he wasn't quite sure why. When even later that evening he took out an ornate stone box left over from his time on Vulcan, he did not question his motives when he placed the hair tie inside and closed the lid with a gentle sort of reverence.

He still has no explanations, only the abstract concept of something that _felt right._

.

It is an odd thing to remember now, these months later.

They are almost months into their five year mission aboard the _Enterprise_, and their request for shared quarters had just been approved. Nyota instantly had decided to move her things into his – the Commander's suite was bigger than hers, and since she usually spent the nights with him anyway, it was the logical thing to do.

While moving his admittedly spartan possessions around, she had found what he had not yet shown her in much the same way her "you-box" had all of that time ago.

Nyota had straightened from where she was comically positioned in the closet, a strange quirk on her lips, and a smooth off white box held almost possessively in her hands.

"Spock?" she questioned, a smile in the tone of her voice as she raised a brow.

He paused from where he had been carrying her things in. Once he saw what she had in her arms, he was not quite sure how to proceed. So, taking her words from a memory ago, he said rather hesitantly, "I believe that the term you coined for it was a 'you box'." The statement sounded ridiculous on his lips. He fought the very human urge to grimace at it.

Nyota though, was thinking no such thing. Her eyes had taken on a misty quality as she passed the pads of her fingers over the dappled material. "Really?" she whispered, emotion welling thick and tangible in her words. It was again something he wondered at, and cherished, if he was completely honest with himself.

"I have no reason to mislead you," he said. "To do so in any case would be something . . . distasteful."

"Ah," her smile was growing – a formidable hybrid of the cheesecake grin and something . . . more.

"May I look inside?" she questioned hopefully.

It was only fair . . .

"Do so as you wish," he gave his consent.

She practically bounced the few steps to the right, and plopped down on the bed – her movements strangely eased, childlike even.

He enjoyed seeing her this happy.

A little more gracefully than his partner, he sat down next to her when she patted the bed with her hand. "I want you here too," she insisted.

He obliged, careful not to touch her skin, not sure how he would take the almost tangible emotion pouring from her mind into his in thickly coiling waves. While not unpleasant, it was . . . intense. The simple things in life that brought her such great pleasure was something that he imagined he would always wonder at.

With careful, caressing fingers she opened the lid. She traced her fingers over the soft material that lined the inside – a beautifully rich thing that to her felt like velvet and silk all in one sensation.

He knew what she would find inside, so he settled for watching her eyes, and the emotions that flashed through them like road maps.

Like hers, there were small, meaningless things that meant much to them, and perhaps not much to the casual observer. And some things were more obvious – on top there was a moving holo of her in her cap and gown, all smiles and hopes and dreams strung together after the early graduation ceremony. There was a worn down hoodie (one that she left over at his quarters so many times that it now had a permanent residence with him. It smelled like her, something sweet and earthy that was completely addicting.), and a torn sparkling top (one of Gaila's getups that had been forced upon her, and that she had looked stunning in. The heels that she had donned that evening had led to an unfortunate incident with a tree branch, and the ruining of said top. Gaila had never asked for it back, not really wanting to know where it had ended up anyway.) Alongside the two garments, there was a torn strip of bright blue, flecked with rusted stains (their first bad spot was on the colony of Alpha III, and had resulted in her being injured. He had torn his uniform into strips to hold the bleeding in until they could beam back to sickbay.), and an old earpiece that Nyota no longer used. The significance was obvious there.

Amongst the soft material, there were odds and ends – a hair tie stolen from her dressing table, a near empty bottle of black nail polish, and a bottle of perfume she had left in his quarters before relocating to the Enterprise. There was a single satin black opera glove (a shore leave on Scalla III had led to them spending an evening with the arts, much to Kirk's good natured dismay. He remembered that the evening dress that she had worn had taken his breath away, literally staring until Kirk had elbowed him none too gently in the side with a pointed cough), and a string of Andian firestones on a gold thread that had been his mothers (once finding out about Nyota, she had sent him the trinket the very same day – the same Sarek had gifted her with when courting her years before - with the express wishes that he gave it to the girl he loved. Amanda had died a week later in the battle for Vulcan, and still he had not been able to give the keepsake to Nyota.).

Gently protected in the side of the box was an ancient styled ream of paper from one of the moons of Renoir which still excelled in the older arts. The sketchbook was a very human indulgence for him, something he took out in small quiet moments only.

She was his subject on nearly every page.

With a wide look to her eyes, Nyota flipped almost reverently through the pages – taking in the sweeping strokes and the gentle attention to detail that defined her on every page. Some sketched in moments that she had no idea of, and the rest from memory, she traced over the crisp lines that spoke of a very great attention to every part of her features – from the lines about her eyes, and the flecks of amber gold and sea blue amongst the sepia of her eyes.

She looked over at him. "I had no idea that you were this talented."

The bare flutters about his face was the Vulcan equivalent of shrugging. "It was never something that came up," he told her.

Nyota traced a fond finger over the book's spine. "I never even thought to ask," she muttered, before turning to meet his eyes again. "You never cease to surprise me, you know?"

This time he took her hand on purpose, wishing to feel what was written so clearly on her face. The emotions, while still overwhelming were bound and perfect against the thick bands of his control.

It felt right . . . this melding of two worlds. It had been a balance that he had struggled his whole life to achieve, and he thinks that when he is with her, reading her this well, that he knows what that balance should look like.

They spent the next few hours puzzling through the box, reminiscing over this and that like any human pair of starstruck lovers; her boxes loitering in the entryway, and the rest of the ship beyond them completely forgotten.

Later, when Kirk greeted them at the start of their shared shift, he asked, "So, how are you settling in, Nyota?" There was a playful smile upon speaking her hard earned name, and a bit of a wag to his eyebrows as he sought to rile a reaction from her.

Instead of indulging him in one of their customary sessions of banter, she met Spock's eyes across the bridge. With a smile whose warmth could not be questioned by anyone watching, she whispered softly, tenderly, "I am settling in just fine, Captain." To Spock, she finished, "Perfectly, even."

There was a small pull at the corner of the Vulcan's mouth, one that he turned to his console to hide.

Kirk watched the exchange with a well meaning scowl, something happy for them blooming behind his eyes.

Shaking his head, once again completely baffled with the universe, he muttered: "Lucky hobgoblin."

Spock did not counter his words, but neither did he hide the small quirk threatening to spill on his lips as he subtly turned away.

**.**

**~MJ**

**.**


	4. Those Left Behind While Waiting pt I

**Author's Note**: This viggie was too long for one post (over 10,000 words, yikes!) and so it will be broke into two. Enjoy, and as always, a big old thanks to **Jade_eyes** for looking this over for me.

* * *

**.**

**IV:** "**Those Left Behind While Waiting" **

.

_Part One: "In These Same Stars Written, Once Again" _

.

The _Enterprise_ breaks from a routine check-in at Starbase 87 in order to transport a few very high ranking diplomats to the new Vulcan colony. The diplomats in question were carrying with them highly priceless artifacts that were now made so much more so due to the destruction of all that the planet had held valuable before.

She knew, upon reflection, that it must have been odd for such a race always obsessed with the illogicality of things to also be consumed with the sentimentality as well – no matter how many ways they may have tried to voice it in justified ways. She sees the way the ambassador's poured over the ancient things – saw the way that Spock watched them from the corner of his eyes, intrigued, but determined not to be. There is a reverence there, speaking to a similarity between their two species that she knew that they would never acknowledge.

It made it intriguing to watch, nonetheless.

She asks him if he is curious about visiting the colony, and receives only a shrug from him. "It is not Vulcan," is all that he mutters, and the weight in those simple words was enough for her to reach out to take his hands in an open support.

He squeezes her hands in return once, before dropping them to return to his duties.

She watches him extra close for the remainder of the journey, feeling his unease at the back of her mind as if it were her own. If he noticed her concern, he said naught to it, and over time the unease faded. She wanted to glare at him for the shielding, however unintentional it was. Throughout the day, her more acute annoyance was swept aside in the duties that required her undivided attention.

They ended up reaching Vulcan in the early evening. A small group of them – Spock, the Captain, the Ambassador's, and her – beamed down to the planet's surface with the the artifacts in question.

Her first impression of the planet as they moved outside of the capitol's main compound was _hot_.

While Vulcan had been all hourglass sands and sweeping tones of red and gold over the harsh yellow sunlight from above, this new planet was just . . . rough. There was a bite to the wind that carried dust and ash on it, chaffing at her skin and swirling with her breath at the back of her throat. The air was incredibly stifling in a way that did not cater well to a human's preference of temperature.

She wonders if the choice was pointed.

The eve threw the atmosphere into plays of deep violet upon burning red, reminding her of the beauty to be found in discordant things once again.

"Cozy," Kirk's muttered appraisal hit her ears a moment later. There was a lack of fondness to his tone that she easily picked up on. When she turned to look at him, he was smiling crookedly at her.

"The planet is almost ten degrees warmer than Vulcan had held in the evening hours. At high noon, the difference can be as much as twenty," Spock said softly, his tone once again the dedicated thing that she had become accustomed to through their few missions to date.

"That explains a bit," Kirk said, wiping at the sweat on his brow.

Spock's eyes were narrowed as he inhaled deeply. He frowned. "There is a higher oxygen content in the atmosphere as well, I believe." He turned to the aide walking ahead of them for confirmation.

"That is correct," was the clipped reply.

Kirk frowned. "You know, this old home of yours is sounding more and more inviting by the moment," he quipped dryly.

The soft statement was the closest that the Captain would ever get to teasing about the loss of Vulcan. Spock took it in stride, a brow raising in a way that it only managed to around Kirk. "Indeed, it was most so," he said, watching Jim's face for the distaste that was sure to appear.

Kirk didn't disappoint, and she snorted back a snort of her own laughter. "Beauty being in the eye of the beholder, and all that," she added.

Kirk did snort that time. "_This_ beholder will find the beauty in a room with the climate controls turned down."

Spock inclined his head. "I do believe that that can be arranged."

"Thank the stars for small favors," Kirk replied, his tone light past the way his eyes watched his first officer in a carefully observant manner.

Any further reply was cut off when they made it across the small courtyard to a grand set of stairs, leading up to a terrace that was open to the wind sweeping through the low valley in soothing waves. Long gauzy curtains billowed, spreading the scent of incense and candle smoke from where a few of the elders had been engaging in evening meditations.

She caught Kirk's face when he realized that their first set of meetings would be done out of doors, mostly. She tried not to smile.

Upon having their guests announced, the small group of elders rose, and greetings were exchanged. She translated as best she could for Kirk – the only one not fluent in Vulcan in the room (even though he was learning exceedingly fast, all allusions to owning a copy of _"the Idiot's Guide to Vulcan"_ aside.)

Behind them, the ambassador's they aided immediately went to the side of a few of the older Elders – historians, by the tone of their inquiries, and after a moment, Nyota gave up upon translating when it became apparent that the proceedings weren't intended for them, necessarily.

The remainder of the Elders switched to Standard in respect of the humans amongst their mist. As the pleasantries continued – inquiries of their journey and thanks for their aide, more of the Elders broke off to converse with their counterparts, leaving Sarek and two others – a man by the name of Siden, and his bondmate T'Pik – to converse with their group.

"I understand that your own officers have tests that they were running?" T'Pik was saying.

Spock nodded, answering where he was more versed, rather than Kirk. "Affirmative," he answered. "There were further objects recovered from the site previously mentioned, and their discovery can lead to substantial furtherance of our understanding – aiding in both the restoration of those lost, and the understanding of those old. The origin point had been an area with increased activity of late – no doubt outside notice, undeniably of which not all can be advantageous."

Siden was frowning. "So, you will be making further runs?"

"There will be other vessels seeing to that," Kirk was able to answer that. "We were merely primely located for this trip, and even more apt to do so seeing as how we have some . . . vested interest in the items at hand."

Uhura fought to smile at Kirk's attempts at sounding formal. The man was a born negotiator when he could actually put his mind to it, and it was with that thought in mind that she stepped closer to Spock, giving Kirk free reign to explain Starfleet's official dealings in the proceedings. While she was close enough to feel the heat from his body, she was not close enough to arouse any undue notice. When he shifted his weight slightly, she could feel his hand brush against hers once, softly, before he drew away again. His eyes were staring straight ahead the whole time, even as the presence in the back of her mind whispered with a soft sort of gratitude.

The exchange was lost on those around them, except, perhaps, by Sarek, who was watching her with an openly evaluating gaze. She caught the look head on, not even looking away when he felt his mental presence – something so incredibly great and stifling that she could feel it through her secondhand impressions from Spock – linger on right outside of the tether that gently connected her to his son.

If he was surprised, his face did not show it. Although, the small look passed between him and his son spoke of words that would be given later – a human exchange that was no doubt Amanda's influence on Sarek after so long a time, rather than anything else.

She tried not to feel too trepidatious about it, knowing that the Ambassador must have already had some inkling of their relationship – whether they had been from Amanda's insinuations days before her death, or his own observations from his time spent on the _Enterprise_ shortly after Vulcan's demise. Still, an all too human worry rose in her throat, making her mute for most of the proceedings.

When the same aide from earlier came to show them to their quarters for the night, she could confess to being grateful. She was giving a room adjacent to Kirk – who wagged his eyebrows insinuatingly when he noticed that Spock was showed to the family's quarters in a different section of the residence. She fought the urge to throw something at him, instead settling for rolling her eyes at him as he chuckled. There were some things about Kirk that she knew would never change.

The interaction, while brief, was enough for Kirk to remark, "So, I guess that certain parties are not aware of certain . . . attachments that have been formed?" His voice was filled with a delicious sort of humor.

He was enjoying this far too much.

Her glare said loads where words sometimes fell silent.

Kirk put his hands up. "Just saying . . ." he gave. He still leaned over to give her hand a sympathetic squeeze when they were out of sight from their guide. "Don't get too down."

And she wasn't. Not precisely . . .

Perhaps she was slightly curious, to be sure. After all, they had been together for over a year at this point, and she knew that Amanda had had her guesses about them, even if Spock had never had the time to confirm them. At the time it had been logical – their relationship had been something silent and under wraps. The last thing he would have done would be to drag his family in under that same silence – much as she had done with her own family.

At the time, a year's wait had seemed trifling.

And then, everything had fallen apart . . .

At least Amanda had formed her opinions after a few choice interactions. She had not been wrong, and Spock had not moved to deny her theories. His joy in the next few days had been something so undeniable that even she had felt it's edges, and given into the feelings anew.

She must have mentioned something to Sarek, right? Even as partially connected as she was to Spock – without Tel-tor, or the benefit of full Vulcan blood - she could confess to being able to keep little from him. It had to be the same with Amanda and Sarek.

And even if Sarek had dismissed his wife's theories as just that – surely Spock must have spoken of their relationship in the three months that had passed since then.

Maybe?

Perhaps . . .

Glumly, she sunk down on the edge of the bed, moving to pull off her boots and change into something more comfortable. A little sadly, she reflected that Sarek and Spock's relationship had always been strained in the years that she knew him, and while Amanda's death had pulled them closer together, it may not have pulled them that close. Even though he had denied otherwise, she knew how much he put on his father's opinion, and he would not have actively sought to bring up another area in his life where his father may show his disapproval.

Long ago, she had understood his fears there – especially coupled with his bond with T'Pring waiting in the wings. That had been a bridge immediately burned, though, when the Vulcan woman had admitted to being attached to another when Spock had mentioning severing their bond.

Would Sarek be against his son following so obviously in his footsteps? Would he may not have been if Spock had earlier followed in his own, instead of deviating for Starfleet?

The logical part of her doubted it, but the human part of her – the part that itched and burned and tore simple things open into widely gaping things - worried.

Telling herself most firmly that she was over-analyzing this was not doing any good either – her mind was officially in high gear, and it was getting hard for her to contain the direction of her thoughts.

With a grumble, she shrugged into one of her father's old jerseys from home – one that still trailed to her thighs, while the sleeves almost entirely covered her hands. She moved to throw all of the windows wide open so the desert night could come in and sooth her – after the cold circulation of a starship, there was nothing she liked better than a dryly warm night that reminded her of her own childhood home. There was the scent of volcanic rock twining with the sweetly fragrant perfume of incense on the air, and she let it lull her to sleep past the darker turn of her thoughts.

Later that night – she could not tell when, only that the scent of incense had faded, and the stars now twinkled at full light from beyond the sheer gauze of her curtains, her bed dipped comfortably as another weight slowly sank down beside her. She groggily recalled two arms wrapping around her, and without further thought she had turned into the familiar embrace, her head immediately snuggling to his chest as her limbs twinned with his. She had inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of him making her drowsy once again.

"Spock?" she mumbled sleepily.

"Hush, _Ashal'veh_," he soothed gently, "we will speak in the morning."

When confronted with logic like that, there was nothing that she could do but go back to sleep, lulled by the gentle beat of his heart against her hip.

The morning dawned warm and clear – the sky streaked an angry red over the horizon that spoke of a turbulent day to come. When she rose, Spock was already gone, but that was hardly a surprise – he rarely slept at night, and she was used to him preparing for his day before her.

With a sigh, she got out of bed and prepared to face the day. Twenty minutes later there was a knock on her door from the aide who was prepared to lead her to the breakfast hall. Once there she saw Kirk already deep in conversation with some of the elders – and a rather pretty female, in particular, that she remembered as T'Pik's younger sister from the introductions the night before. Uhura rolled her eyes at the sight, and briefly considered warning the woman. She decided against it when the woman's gentle tones unraveled Kirk's attempts at flirting each and every time.

Chuckling slightly to herself, she got her breakfast – an assortment of fruit and a blander version of Pl'hesh that coincided with yogurt back on Earth. Wincing slightly when she realized that instead of coffee she would be forced to settle with tea, she made her way back to the table.

Kirk's eyes immediately found hers, grinning impishly from underneath trailing blonde bangs. "So, did you sleep well, Lieutenant?"

She smiled primly at him. "Wonderfully, Captain. You?" Her eyes flashed slightly.

Kirk chuckled. "As well as could be expected, Lieutenant. As well as could be expected . . ."

One last smile at her, and then he turned his attention to the much more interesting Vulcan woman at his side. Uhura watched him for a moment with an unrestrained humor in her eyes as she mentally translated the woman's asides to her sister, who was also watching the exchange with some interest.

Kirk looked at her at one of these. "What are they saying about me?"

She smiled into her tea as she considered explaining to him exactly what a V'lastin was, and exactly how they were using the comparison on him. Instead she said, "They find you . . . fascinating."

Kirk smiled proudly.

She finished her breakfast, and after a search of the compound, found that she could not find Spock. Wanting to keep busy, she noticed where a string of off-world volunteers were helping with the spreading of supplies and building tools outside, and she easily noticed that their interpreters were spread thin in all of the orderly chaos.

Wanting to be of use while they waited for further orders, she walked up to the foreman – an aging Vulcan man, with widely wrinkled features – and volunteered her services.

She was immediately put to work outside with the transports, where an odd group of the expected Vulcans and traders from Messothar to Betazoid were waiting with goods. Thankful for the order and logic of such a mass of beings, she did her best seeing this and that distributed here and there.

By being amongst the refugees – the best name she could attribute for the somber and determined group she was amongst – she once again found an amazed respect for this group of people – starting over and anew after having their whole taken from them. The planet they were cultivating was one that was harsh and unforgiving, and yet it reminded her of a crucible from old-Earth, something hot and forging that purged impurities from precious things.

Was that a root in their choice of this planet? While it was the logical choice – the planet was only three systems away from the graveyard of Vulcan, and it's terrain and climate was much the same – part of her saw the emotive connotations in the selection as well.

About four hours into her duties, she felt the heat take a toll on her human frame in a most vexing way. While she had grown up in the hot Nairobi sun, there was a large difference from the Sahara heat on the knee length grasses of her home and the thick red sun beating down on her most vengefully now.

It was a planet that would never really cater to those outside of the Vulcan race without much determination, and much time.

With that thought in mind, she made her way over to one of the large beige tents that were set up as a temporary base for those running the relief effort.

There were a handful of Vulcan women passing out refreshments for those volunteers who found the heat to be above their liking, and she greedily eyed the water with something like reverence.

There was a softly low voice from behind her. "Over time with humans, I have found," it started thoughtfully, "that even though their systems are apt to better receiving water of a more neutral temperature, that there is nothing they prefer more than a glass of water over ice on a hot day."

She turned, and found Sarek watching her with a contemplative glow to his otherwise blank expression. He was holding out a glass of ice water to her, and she took it hesitantly.

"Drink," he said simply.

And she did, watching him the whole time.

Her time spent with Spock showed her the humor loitering in Sarek's eyes, something that she doubted would be noticed by most. "There were times when Amanda found Vulcan's temperatures to be a bit extreme for her tastes."

"I don't think that I can blame her," she agreed. At least she had had some preparation for this – for Amanda, Vulcan must have been such a change from the coolly rain stroked hues of Seattle before.

"I believe that it had more appeal after the passage of much time," Sarek agreed, falling in to match her stride. Intrigued, she continued walking, curious as only a human could be at the purpose of him seeking her out.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, and yet it didn't feel uncomfortable, merely contemplative – heavy with all sorts of weighing things.

"You speak our language in a way that is most impressive. Usually it takes most years to properly master the syntax." Sarek started conversationally.

There was a pink blush to her cheeks that spoke more of pride than of the sun. "It was one of the firsts that I learned," she agreed, no arrogance to her tone, merely fact.

"On a whole, how many languages do you speak?"

"Fluently? Almost eighty-three – although four of those are admittedly dead languages like High Vulcan and the third Romulan chord. I know the basics in almost a hundred more, and have mastered root phonology so that I can piece together new languages that I am introduced to."

"A very useful talent," Sarek said softly. He turned slightly towards her. "My son tells me that you were the top of your class."

She flushed softly at the implication that Spock had spoke to him of her. "I had the best teachers," she answered truthfully.

"Indeed," Sarek intoned blandly, even though she was not blind to the pride about his eyes. She wondered if he realized how much like his son he was in his minute expressions of thought and feeling.  
Silence fell again as they came to the edge of the enclosure. The drop off in the staggered buildings gave a great view to the great expanse of the valley below, and the mountains beyond reaching their rusty toned hands to the noon sky beyond. It truly was beautiful.

"It is a lovely view," she said simply.

Sarek inclined his head. "It is as much aesthetically pleasing as it is practical," he agreed, and she fought to smile again at how much he sounded like his son – or, she corrected herself, how much his son sounded like him. "Vulcan had many such views as this, so the scenery is . . . enjoyable," the word sounded a little strained on his tongue.

She did smile at it, this time.

Sarek was gazing oddly at her, as if she were something that he couldn't quite figure out. It was yet again a look that she was quite familiar with.

"Amanda spoke of you once before," Sarek said without much preamble. If there was one thing she appreciated about his race, it was their tendency to say what was on their mind without softly wording their approach to it. "She had seen you in one of her communications to my son, and she was . . . joyful over the theories that she had formed."

She blinked, a part of her secretly thrilling at the revelation. She remembered that day clearly – Amanda's teasing face on the communication as she teased her son about the woman he was with. If Amanda's joy was as great as it had been through another's eyes, it stood to reason that she would share it with her husband.

"I remember that day," she whispered. It had been only days before Vulcan's destruction. Now, the memory was tinged with bittersweet things.

He inclined his head. "While at the time I was skeptical, I didn't contradict her thoughts, not when they brought her so much joy, but now I find myself . . . in error with my judgment."

She raised her eyes to boldly meet his.

"My son has . . . centered himself greatly in the months since I have last seen him. After Vulcan's destruction his emotions were in disarray to a point where I could feel them past where I normally could – I know, after witnessing your connection, that you must have noticed it as well."

And she did, after everything that had happened in those days, his emotions were strong enough at times to twist and warp at her own – causing her empathy to only be that much more sincere when she moved to help him.

"You have given him a peace," he continued to acknowledge, "that both fully indulging in his Vulcan blood, or even fully embracing his humanity would have failed to give him. I feel compelled to express my . . . gratitude in that regard."

She blinked at him, truly not expecting that at all. A soft smile lit her features upon realizing that everything that Spock viewed as 'strained' between him and his father was really just Sarek's beliefs clashing with Spock's over what would result in true peace for him. It was a conundrum that she knew was found between most parents and their children.

She paused before actually telling him just how . . . human the whole situation was.

"This centering was one that I often found in my Amanda's presence . . . I am grateful for all that you mean to him."

The words were heavy with a still fresh grief and an awkward voicing of his emotions. She found herself blinking her eyes past the tears they fought to inspire.

"Not as grateful as I am for all he is to me," she whispered, allowing her emotions to hang on the words tenderly. There was a smile on her face as she looked past Sarek to where the clear sky was starting to press down with thin clouds high above them in the atmosphere.

"I am glad to hear of it," Sarek said, his voice just barely taking on a gruffness that Spock's also gained when he had had too much of a new emotion in a new situation. She knew that if she looked over at him, he would be taking long breaths, once again binding his tight control into something acceptable for him.

Silence passed for a moment. In the dry air, she could feel the bite lessen as static tickled against her skin.

It would rain, she knew. The planet's propensity for annual storms was something that Spock had remarked on with curiosity when he had described the planet to her.

"You two have formed a connection," Sarek continued after a moment. "I know that you are aware of this?"

"Yes," she said, biting her lip. Wasn't that the norm in most Vulcan relationships?

"I must admit that I found myself perplexed when I first felt it – it is something normally only brought about with an outside binder." This she knew – the practice of Vulcan children being bonded together at a tender age. "While connections can form on their own, they are often only brought on by a strong catalyst, and often unable to sever." His point here was clear.

"I had guessed that much," she admitted, even as a part of her swelled with affection. She had always assumed that this was the norm with a relationship with a telepathically strong being. It made it all that much more special to know that it was something rare, even amongst their standards.

He was still looking at her, weighing her, judging her. Contrasting her to his memory of a woman gone now.

"It changes nothing except to make what we have something I cherish that much more," she said softly, her eyes meeting his in an assurance.

His face did not change – it was still as impassive as ever, but something about his posture did relax slightly – the strong line of his shoulders, the straight set to his back, they all settled into something comfortable and poised rather than tightly rigid.

He did not say anything to her declaration, either, and his eyes moved were dark as he took in the clouds brimming on the previously empty sky. "It'll rain shortly," was all that he said. "The days after will be something particularly pleasing to gaze upon, if you choose to stay that long."

"It sounds wonderful," she said softly.

The moments between them that stretched on their way back was silent, but it was full with a gentle sort of thing – two people united by the love of one, and in the end she found it more than she could ever hope for.

**.**

**TBC**

**~MJ**

**.**


	5. Those Left Behind While Waiting pt II

**Author's Note**: Sorry for the delay in posting this. I hate it when the muse is lazy . . . As always, thanks to **Jade_eyes** for giving this a looksie.

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**V. "Those Left Behind While Waiting"**

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_Part Two: "Written in a Different Set of Stars"_

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After a few hours on the new Colony, his reactions to it could only be described as unsettling.

_Unsettling_ could be the only way to describe the air – richer than his childhood home, but harsh with so many foreign things. _Unsettling_ could be described as the promise of storms on the next day in the violent set of the setting sun against the sky. _Unsettling_ was the only way to put the sight of the elders – veritable legends in his then young eyes engaging in evening meditation under rebuilt walls with stone that was so different from the k'lar masses at home, no matter how much they were glamored to look the same . . .

During the first meeting he had centered himself with the logic of answering the questions of those gathered. The imparting of information was something simple that kept his mind occupied, and his eyes on the face of the person he was addressing rather than the unfamiliar terrain beyond the windows. When Kirk stepped up to explain Starfleet's official stand on things, he had relinquished the floor, a part of him steeped in an almost-pride for the Captain Jim was making.

When Nyota had come to stay by his side, he had been grateful for her calming presence. The soft line that connected him to her conveyed his thanks, and a moment later he could feel the brush of her hand against his as she shifted her weight ever so slightly. It was an exchange that went unnoticed by the majority of the group, except by his father, who had taken notice with an uncharacteristic question in his eyes. A moment later, he could feel his father's presence at the connection they still shared, and he only moved to break it off when he probed curiously at the burgeoning bond that he had with Nyota.

Sarek's eyes flashed sharply to him at that – whether in acknowledgment of his son's mental control, or the previously unmentioned bond, he was not sure.

The next thought he felt clearly was that there would be words about that later. When Spock looked over to catch his father's gaze, Sarek was already engrossed in the conversation at hand again. Shaking his head, Spock ruefully thought that there was no one quite like one's father who had the ability to make you feel as if you were five years old again.

Apparently, he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, so to speak.

At his side, Sarek's notice had not gone unobserved by Nyota, who had an uncharacteristic pale set to the warm glow of her skin. He frowned mentally at it, wondering just where her mind had gone to produce that response. With an internal sigh, he pressed as much contentment and peace as he could towards her, even though she seemed to absorb but little of it.

She said little more through the proceedings, and looked to be every bit grateful when their guide came to show them to their quarters for the evening. Spock was not surprised when Jim and she were lead to the guest quarters and he was lead to the family suites. He clasped Nyota's hand once with a promise before leaving her, aware of her continuing unease, and even more acutely aware of Jim's insinuating teasing with her. Ah, so the Captain had picked up on her uneasy mood, as well.

Upon reaching his room, he sat wearily on the edge of the bed, the scent of incense on the night air swirling through his senses, threatening to make him nauseous. He sat there, one hand propped up his forehead, until he could feel Nyota drift off to sleep.

Once being certain that she was well for the night, he slipped out, and made his way to his father's small apartment. Upon announcing himself, Sarek greeted him, looking none too surprised at his visit. "I was curious as to how long it would take you."

"The hour is not too late?" Spock inquired, his head titled to acknowledge the dusky fall of night beyond.

Sarek shook his head. "When one has reached my years, one finds sleep a luxury more often than not."

The human part of him wondered how much of that had been true only after Amanda's demise, but wisely demurred against it. He stayed by the door, almost awkwardly, instead, until Sarek invited him in further, gesturing to the pot of tea that he was just taking off of the burner.

Spock accepted, almost grateful to have something to occupy his hands with. He did not speak until Sarek took a seat at the low table across from him.

"You have something on your mind." The statement was not a question.

"Of a sort," Spock replied.

"You may feel free to share, if that is your wish."

So he wouldn't give. Recalling many a time when Amanda had glumly called her husband 'stubborn' when he refused to come out and argue with her directly, Spock fought to keep from smiling as he said, "I believe that you have become aware of certain . . . attachments that have been formed. Ones that I have previously been silent to."

Sarek was silent for a moment. "I have." More silence. "Your mother had her suspicions before . . . I never put weight upon them, and then, the unthinkable happened . . ." His tone was completely bland, completely Vulcan, but there was still a depth of emotion in his eyes that he would never completely be able to hide around his family.

"I am sorry for not informing you sooner," Spock said softly.

Sarek inclined his head. "The timing is irrelevant now that the information is out. Do not concern yourself to it." Ever the diplomat.

Spock nodded, tapping his long fingers against the teacup.

Sarek was silent for a moment, before saying, "You are grounded." His voice was thoughtful, his eyes contemplative. "Your emotions have always been easy to ascertain, and they have always resembled a kaleidoscope in motion. They are . . . calmer now. Centered."

"I have had cause to exercise more than the usual control in the last few months," Spock agreed softly.

"I think it may be more than that," Sarek said gently. "Your bond with the Lieutenant – it was formed when you were under emotional duress, was it not?"

"It was." It was a thought that he had wondered at as well.

Sarek nodded. "It is rare, but not unheard of for bonds to spring from extreme catalysts. You do understand the . . . implications of this, do you not?"

Spock met his gaze unflinchingly. "Yes. I do."

Sarek observed him, long and slow, for a moment. "Your mother, I believe, would have been proud, if she were here." The words were simple, the carefully blank intonation behind them somehow adding to the weight of them.

Feeling a strange sort of affection bloom past the numb sort of grief that mention of his mother brought, Spock nodded his head just slightly. "Thank-you, father."

The rest of the eve's conversation was light and of little lasting consequence, but it was peaceful – something so rare in his meetings with his father that he drew it out almost greedily.

When he finally took his leave, he bypassed his own rooms, instead heading for Nyota's. He had become so accustomed to having her with him every night that he was now loathe to part with her for even one. He wondered if that made him 'whipped', as Jim had so eloquently put it.

Shaking his head, he slipped into her room, a smile lighting his face when he saw her nestled in the very center of the bed – hugging one of the pillows to her in his absence, and her father's old jersey on in a testament to her emotional unbalance. He watched her for a moment – content to observe the way the starlight threw her face into plays of silver and blue, before shrugging neatly out of his clothes, and gently joining her. He wrapped his arms around her, and she wasted no time before sleepily turning into his hold – burying her face in his chest, and entwining their limbs as she did every night.

She inhaled deeply, before her eyes fluttered open. "Spock?" she mumbled sleepily.

"Hush, _Ashal'veh_," he soothed gently, "we will speak in the morning."

She nodded dreamily before falling back to sleep. He watched her for a moment, lulled by the soft beat of her heart against his chest before letting himself fall away with her.

He woke hours before she did, as was the norm. Instead of indulging in resting until she awakened, he gently got out of bed and prepared to face the day. There was much to be done that day – between meetings with the council, and further orders from Starfleet. That, and there was one more more personal visit he would like to pay.

His morning hours faded away in a swirl of meditation and meetings, and before he knew it time was stretching off into the afternoon hours. Curious as to what Nyota had found to occupy her time with, he ventured outside just in time to feel the storm that was brewing in the distance.

He paused against the sensation of static against his skin, and marveled at this new world anew. Like home in so many ways, but so unlike in so many others . . .

His venturing took him high above the compound's overlook. A few levels before he could see where his father and Nyota were walking, and he smiled a bit when he felt the joy and contentment radiating from Nyota in waves.

He watched her for longer than he would admit too when another voice joined his musings. "She is truly something remarkable, is she not?"

Spock looked behind him, to see . . . himself.

A few feet away was the him from another time – an elderly version of himself with open laugh lines wrinkling about his eyes, and his skin a healthy tan from spending so much time outside. His eyes glittered in an open mirth as he raised his hand in the traditional salute.

Spock returned it, a smile threatening to come onto his own lips before he fought it away.

"You had an acquaintance with Nyota in your own time?" he asked, a hesitant curiosity blooming in his voice. Even though before he had shown no interest of his other life, he could admit to a most biased interest here – did he and Nyota marry in the other time line? Did they have children? How long was it before she succumbed to humanity's number one enemy – time? All of these were questions that burned on the tip of his tongue, even though he knew how illogical the yearning for this knowledge was.

"She very much was a dear friend of mine," the elderly him spoke, an obvious fondness leaking into his voice. "We served together for many years, and she stuck beside me through some very interesting times. Even after our service together, we kept up a rapport until her death."

He fought to keep from frowning at all that wasn't said there. There was a fondness and friendship to be there, for sure, but there was not anything more . . . Not the burn of emotion that he expected him to have after a lifetime with Nyota, and so many years spent after her death . . .

The elder Spock's next words were gentle. "I do not believe that we were as close as you are with your Nyota, though." There was a certain thoughtfulness to his tone – something almost wistful. But it was not the wistfulness of a lover remembering, it was the wistfulness of hindsight – the wonderment at lost chances and what-could-bes.

It struck him colder than any enemy blow in that moment, even as the higher part of his mind scoffed at the illogicality of such a thing.

The elder Spock's eyes eyes were kindly. "I'm sorry to have upset you," he said softly.

"I can assure you, I am not upset," he said softly, his face completely blank at the emotions running wild underneath his careful control.

The elder him raised a brow. Distantly, he wondered if it was as annoying to others as it was to him in that moment.

"I think that you forget that I am you, in some ways," he said thoughtfully.

"I do not forget," he said, containing the rest of his emotions when Nyota turned and looked up, her eyes finding his with a question as she felt his unease. Against the back of his mind, he felt her concern, and instantly he assured her that he was fine.

Spock watched the exchange with close eyes. When he spoke his voice was intrigued. "You two share a bond already?"

The younger Spock shook his head. "A connection only."

"Most interesting," the elder him muttered.

A moment passed as they both watched as Nyota and Sarek turned to go inside once again. The air was becoming thick. He knew that at any moment it would rain.

The elder him was observing him thoughtfully. "It is most intriguing," he said softly. "You are centered much more than I ever did at your age. I think that the majority of that control can be attributed to your connection."

It was his turn to raise a brow. "You will not believe how many people had made that same conjecture in the last few days."

The elder's eyes were smiling. "You keep wise company."

A moment passed. "I believe that I can agree with you on that." He was silent for a second longer, only thinking how best to phrase his thoughts before plowing on with them. "The commitment I have made now . . . what is your opinion on it?"

The elder version of him chuckled lowly. "Why, I believe it is intensely fascinating." With that, he turned to take his leave.

There was the beginnings of raindrops now. He stayed out with his thoughts as the sky darkened overhead before turning to go inside himself.

.

.

He did not see Nyota until that evening again. He had taken his meals with his father, and Nyota had busied herself with work with the refugees. When he came into her quarters that night she was chattering a mile a minute about the things she had seen and the things she had done. Her verse was rapid, and her gestures were most animated as she went on and on about this and that.

Her opinions of the planet were glowing – she loved everything about it, it seemed, from it's harsh qualities, to it's determined populace, to the storms that she had every window thrown open in order to invite in.

Part of him thrilled that she could be so content here, while another part of him simply watched on in silence.

She didn't notice his uncharacteristic quiet until she had ceased one of her more interesting anecdotes about Kirk and T'Pik's younger sister. At this point she was in a long satin nightgown with a matching robe, and she was brushing out her long hair with languidly even strokes. "You've been quiet this evening." her voice was gentle, imploring.

"I do believe that I would have been unable to get a word in edgewise – if that is how the phrase goes."

She rolled her eyes good naturedly at him. "Hush it, you," she teased before her eyes narrowed seriously. "But really, there's something on your mind." Her tone was far too knowing for his taste.

He took a deep breath. "It was simply a long day . . . this place is so familiar, and yet so different. It was . . . unsettling." He has come to have an irrational dislike for that word.

He could feel her sympathy in the back of his mind as she joined him on the bed, her long arms wrapping around him. He closed his eyes long and slow at the feel of the embrace, not liking the thought that in another time, another place, this would not have been . . .

That thought was not only unsettling, but painful, no matter how illogical the emotion was.

She noticed his somewhat hesitant grip on her, for she did not move to pull herself away. "Is that all that is bothering you?" she questioned.

He took a deep breath, and still he hesitated. She must have sensed it, for she let it go for a moment, instead going on to hold him slightly tighter as she said, "I had an interesting conversation with your father today."

"Really?" His curiosity was piqued.

"Yes," she affirmed. "I think he likes me," she whispered somewhat playfully.

He nodded. "I had suspected he would,"

Her smile was growing. "He told me that I do for you what Amanda had done for him . . . well, not in so many words, but that's what he meant." Her tone was somewhat teasing.

Surprised that his father had said so much, he asked, "What else did he say?"

"That you and I are stuck together for the long haul," she said. This was softer, more trepidatious, as she watched him closely for his reaction.

He closed his eyes long and slow, the memory from another time, another place circling in his mind. "And how do you feel about that?" he questioned softly.

She leaned in, kissed him, and he sighed into the touch. "I think that I can live with it," she said with a mock seriousness, a playfulness in the affection that had sprung into her eyes.

He marveled at it, as he always did.

"I am glad," he said simply, knowing that she would hear and understand the emotion loitering behind those words.

A moment passed – one made soothing by the gentle caress of her hands against his hair, and the rush of the storms just past the window. The air was filled with moisture, washing away the harsh things from the day. He breathed in deeply of it, letting the scent of the rain swirl around the exotic spice that was completely Nyota.

When his hold on her turned a little less desperate, she gently tried again. "Are you sure that you don't want to tell me what's wrong?" there was a note of gentle teasing in her voice. But it was firm, unyielding.

When he could feel her start to probe at their bond, looking for answers herself, he finally sighed. "Cease that, Nyota. I shall tell you."

She immediately drew back, her cheeks staining a high pink at being caught. "So spill," she implored gently.

One last deep breath, and then he said, "I had an interesting conversation with myself today."

"Ah," while she had known of Spock Prime's existence, she hadn't moved to seek him out before. Her tone was careful, but he could feel the same curiosity filling her that had possessed him earlier.

He moved to take one of her hands in his, rubbing small circles on her palm in a way that soothed him as much as it did her. She leaned into the touch, as she always did.

"We observed you with our father earlier this afternoon, and I had inquired as to if he had known you in his own time."

She held a baited breath.

"He confessed to being very close with you – but the closeness of friends, of comrades . . . not, what we share."

She was silent for a long moment. Her pulse had gone still from where he could feel it thrum at her wrists. He held his breath unknowingly.

She let loose a deep breath of her own. "Then I pity him," she finally let loose on a whisper, her large, liquid eyes turning up to meet his. "I can't imagine just being friends with you . . . and not wanting anything more."

"They were under different circumstances, different times . . ." he tried to speak logically, realistically, give voice to the thoughts in his mind that were completely Vulcan, soothing over the ridiculous fears he held that were completely human, and unwanted.

"You are still the same man inside," she whispered. A grin let her eyes as she leaned even further into him. "How did he look when he told you? Did he look curious, or thoughtful? Was his look the one you get when you are working on one of your experiments, or was his look the one you wear when you think of your mother?"

He understood.

And she saw exactly when he did. "I don't think our two times are so different," she whispered, gently kissing up his neck between words. "I think that they just lacked the courage- or insight, to figure out what we figured out before it was too late."

Her words soothed a part of him that had been discontented all day. Her kisses and light touches did even more so. He leaned into them like a starving man, completely unraveled before her once again.

She caught the gift he unknowingly gave, and he trusted her to keep it safe – this complete humanity that he only showed around her.

Centering, his father had called what he had found with her.

Fascinating, his other self had whispered, almost enviously.

Balance. Peace. Perfection – _love_, defined by so many smaller things.

And he could not think of a better way to describe it.

.

.

The next day dawned free of storms, the sky brushed a pale shade of blushing pink over the cool morning blue. The desert below had come alive in shades of gold and rose as flowers dotted the previously barren landscape in something beautiful and full of life.

Nyota's eyes had been wide as she looked out at it, finding his with an enthusiasm that could only be described as catching.

"_Particularly pleasing_," she mumbled with an amused roll of her eyes. "Completely breathtaking, he should have said." She turned to look over at him. "I think that I can become attached to this place very easily," she warned teasingly.

He took her hand briefly in his. "It does have its high points, I shall give it that."

She leaned into him, just slightly, and he turned into her, his eyes just barely making out the figure of his father and his older self in the distance, watching on with a quiet sort of contemplation.

He nodded in acknowledgment of their presence, before turning his attention completely to the woman at his side.

Around them, the barren lands continued to bloom.

**.**

**~MJ**

**.**


	6. By all means Envious

**Author's Note**: As always, a big old thanks to **Jade_eyes** for looking this over for me.

* * *

**.**

**VI: "By all means Envious"  
**  
**.**

They are four months into their five-year mission when Nyota hits a mountain in a previous bump of a problem. Her problem was just over five feet tall, with the clichéd blue eyes that sparkled more than she was sure was healthy (she was a nurse, shouldn't she have these things checked out?), with curling blonde hair that didn't _seem_ to want to stay in the required bun that Starfleet commanded. Her problem wore a uniform that didn't _seem_ to be regulation on a body that didn't_ seem_ to be natural, who had one of those beautifully light voices that coincided with one of unerringly good taste in shoes that normally would have commanded an instant and easy kindred spirit.

The taste in shoes was her saving grace. Under normal circumstances, she probably would have enjoyed Christine Chapel's company. The woman was beautiful, sure, but so were many women. Hers was a beauty that she didn't flaunt and was made more striking by the way she fingered the ring hanging on a silver chain around her neck when she thought no one was looking. She was intelligent, and kind – making up for the stereotypes about blondes and nurses that so often went hand in hand . . . Yes, she could get along with Christine Chapel very well.

And at first, they had. While she had seen Christine around campus – they shared a class that basically boiled down to reading alien body language, a talent that came in handy amongst both the translator and the medical assistant alike – she had not really talked to the woman until being stationed to the _Enterprise_. After Nero's destruction, Spock had been checked over by McCoy, along with Kirk, and she had listened to the three-way bantering with every light amusement. At her side, also observing, was Christine, and the two had gotten along wonderfully. The fading adrenaline had them both in very pleasant moods, and the trio before them had added to the light atmosphere between them.

Even in her good mood, Nyota had noticed the way Christine's eyes had lingered on Spock. They were small glances, but they lingered. Nyota was used to her fair share of stares while with him – he was the only Vulcan enlisted in Starfleet, after all, and there were rumors enough to cause many an eye to turn whenever he appeared, plus, he was not . . . unappealing to look at! But _this_ was different. This was _interested_.

She didn't care for it then. Not one bit.

When Christine softly stopped Spock on his way out and offered her condolences for his losses, Nyota had to physically keep her hands by her sides. The exchange was innocent – Christine didn't touch him out of respect, and Spock would never have even thought to interpret the way her large eyes were turned up at him as anything other than sympathetic. But she knew better.

She also knew, that to all intents and purposes, no one knew about her and Spock. That . . . complicated things.

When a few choice Andorian curses were mumbled under her breath, Kirk had looked over at her in confusion. When he followed her simmering gaze over to its source, he had immediately broken into a large grin. "Well, check that out," Kirk had drawled, coming over to rest a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened at the contact. "The nurse is making her rounds."

She pointedly slipped out from under his touch. "And that's _all_ she's doing," she said somewhat stiffly. While she had grown from exasperated annoyance with Jim Kirk to somewhat begrudging respect in the space of not even ten hours, that did not mean she was anywhere near ready to joke with him about something like this.

Kirk had chuckled. "Well, if you need help dealing with that particular problem, let me know," his eyes lingered appreciatively on Christine, she had rolled her eyes.

"Please," she muttered. "Like I'd put the poor thing through that."

She didn't have it out for the nurse that much.

Kirk put a hand over his heart. "You wound me with your low opinion, Lieutenant." He widened his eyes, giving an altogether perfect picture of perfect innocence . . . but his grin was predatory.

She snorted. "I'm merely looking out for the benefit of your crew, _Captain_."

He scowled at his title. "Right . . . the whole Captain thing. That's going to take some getting used to."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you will do just fine."

When she inserted herself between Christine and Spock, she was sure to be subtle about it. Still, Kirk's laughter followed her when she left with Spock, standing a little closer to his side than could be considered needed or professional. Spock didn't say anything, so lost as he was in his own little world after the day's events. Even still, past the great emotional haze that made up his mind, she could feel his question when he asked if all was well with her. Ah, so he had felt her annoyance.

Her next step had her hand brushing just slightly against his. "Nothing that isn't better now," she had assured him. And it was. After all, how could she feel even the teensiest bit jealous when she could feel_ that_ as a reassurance of his affections?

Over the next few months she could ignore the look or two (or twelve) that Christine threw the Commander's way. She really could. She could even ignore Jim's teasing on the matter, even as Spock remained oblivious to it.

And when Jim's teasing went a little too far - _"You know, there were some interesting things about Miss Chapel floating around in our other Spock's mind. I'm not saying that you should be worried, or anything, I'm just saying -"_McCoy had sworn for her that the stylus had flown out of her hand and somehow hit Jim in the head. She did not, by any means, throw it. Jim was rather silent afterwords, merely glaring mulishly at her.

He wisely stood out of her range for the rest of the day, just to be safe, letting her seethe at her station in peace.

When, later, she was a little more sharper with Christine than normal, the other woman said nothing to it.

And when, weeks later, knowledge of her and Spock pretty much became public knowledge, she became aware of a tapering off on Christine's open appraisal of her man.

When, one night over drinks, Christine had put a hand on her hand and softly said, "I'm sorry, I didn't know." she had thought that she had absolved all harsh opinions of the woman.

And then Garin II happened.

Garin II . . .

Garin II was a class M planet that they had beamed down to in a peacekeeping effort on behalf of the Federation units on the planet. After the initial scuffle (or two) things even went remarkably well, due in part to Kirk's quick thinking on his feet and downright ferociousness that he exuded when he had a friend in danger. While the man was nothing but an overgrown child with a shiny toy at times, there were others when he deserved everything about his title, and so much more . . .

And still, when the friend in question was a Spock who had taken a heavy blast in one of the opening scuffles, it had put her heart in her mouth as she had made her way down to sickbay as fast as she possibly could.

It was a bad hit, and yet it was more painful than it was life threatening. Still, the even paler cast to his skin had made her insides twist, and the pain clouding his eyes as he flickered in and out of consciousness made something heavy and hot gather in the back of her throat.

She had been pushing through nurses, oblivious to McCoy's shouting _'anyone in here who isn't dying or saving someone who's dying – get out!'_ to get to Spock's side, only to find that that position was taken.

Past the din and the hectic pass of personnel and aides, Christine Chapel was sitting at Spock's side doing nothing more helpful than leaning in close to him and speaking in a low tone of voice that she could not decipher no words from past the tenderness that permeated her tone.

She had an uncomfortable jolt of possession grip her when Christine took one of his hands in both of hers, squeezing them in what to a human would have been a kind and supportive grip. To Spock, even in his delirium, it let him in on the outer edges of her turbulent emotional state, letting him feel _exactly_ what was going on in her head.

She stopped, her jaw dropping open as she saw red. _Oh hell no_, her inner outrage sounded remarkably like McCoy when Kirk had done something particularly stupid . . . A second later, she felt a sharp twist against the bond in her mind. Spock was looking for her – he wanted her, and the knowledge could make even the tender expression on Christine's face pale into nothing of lasting importance. If the situation were not so dire, she'd almost interpret a part of his searching for her as a form of panic. Her inner _'just calm down, hon'_ voice (who sounded suspiciously like Kirk) said that it almost would have been comical in another time.

But it wasn't, and she was both afraid and angry - a bad combination in any circumstances.

Christine looked up when Spock whispered her name on an exhale, her wide blue eyes clouding over as she shot to her feet somewhat guiltily. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, her soft voice heavy with all sorts of things.

Nyota didn't care at the moment, she simply wanted her out of the way. She gestured sharply, and Christine relinquished her place at Spock's side. Nyota didn't spare a glance for her as she passed, instead moving to take Spock's hand in hers, letting her emotions flood through him, taking as much of his pain as she could onto herself.

She took a deep breath and let him fill her, leaving no place for anything black, anything negative . . .

When she raised her eyes, Christine was watching them from across the room with a strange expression on her face.

And, oddly enough, from a few feet away, watching Christine was Kirk. The Captain's face was grim as he watched as McCoy patched up his first officer, but it was also curious as he watched Christine more closely than would pass for acceptable.

Her languages were not only that of the tongue, they were that of the body, and everything about Kirk was screaming a confusion, a hesitance . . . And a curiosity.

She blinked as the implications of his gaze seeped in.

McCoy had caught her line of sight. "About as obvious as klets stampeding in a glass shop, the lot of you are," he muttered under his breath, and she wondered as to how long she had been oblivious to the wholes of the situation . . .

She didn't much think on the situation until Spock was stable again. There were more important things to attend to until Spock brought up what he had felt in Christine's mind the next day. By that time, their corner of the medbay was shut off with a privacy screen, and the clatter of working personnel was far away. She had her work in a variety of PADDs before her, and Spock was confined to doing nothing but watch her – Doctor's threats -er, orders (and the repeated threat of reopening said wounds with phaser fire of his own in the end).

He was staring disinterestedly at a bowl of yogurt and fresh fruit she had brought him, his whole manner about as mulish as he would ever get over obeying a direct order.

"I felt something . . . odd, within Nurse Chapel the other day," his tone was hesitant, curious but not wanting to be.

She fought to smile at it. While Vulcan's were touch telepaths, they could for the most part cut down on the intensity of the emotions they filtered through. Yesterday, his lack of mental prowess, coupled with her own emotional turmoil must have been an interesting cocktail indeed.

"Odd?" she questioned, refusing to help him out.

"I believe she harbors an . . . interest in me," the tips of his ears were flushed a pale green as he spoke, his eyes narrowed as he puzzled through the situation in his mind.

She laughed outright at his phrasing. "Yes, she likes you, Spock."

"Likes?"

She shrugged. "It's a crush, all humans get them."

"I understand the concept of a crush," he said, his eyes locked pointedly with hers.

"She's liked you for a while now," she continued, watching him closely.

The flush became a little more pronounced. He was silent for a moment before saying, "It does make a few stray remarks from the Captain more . . . logical."

She laughed outright at that. "Yes, Kirk has been having a particularly fond time harassing me about this." Before, not as of late, if she had noticed. Which she hadn't . . .

Spock noticed her lapse into thoughtfulness. "I feel compelled to say that this is in no way reciprocated, or -"

She leaned over and silenced him by kissing him.

"You are not angry?" his tone was careful, testing.

"No, not really. Well, not anymore, anyway . . ." she admitted with a rueful smile. She pressed her hand against his, and poured her contentment and trust through their bond. A moment later, she could feel him begin to relax. "How can I fault her for good taste?" she asked, a lightness seeping into her voice.

He was still silent, but he was running a thumb back and forth over the top of her hand. The touch was softly soothing, and she breathed in deep at it.

"She was worried yesterday – petrified, even," she went on to explain. "Humans do weird things when afraid for someone they care about. I understand, and I harbor no anger to her."

Spock nodded, and she felt his understanding and affection through their bond as she gave his hand one last squeeze before turning back to work.

When, a few weeks later, Kirk stayed up late when the Russian kid (who was suffering from a bad case of Gondo poisoning) and fell asleep in sickbay. Nyota had just arrived to bring a stack of PADDs to Pavel for the next day, and had been just in time to see Christine bringing out a blanket from one of the storage closets. She gently tossed the blanket over Kirk's form from where he was curled up awkwardly in the hard chair next to the biobed. There was something fond and pleasant about her face as she stood back to watch him sleep for longer than would pass for completely uninterested. It was not yet something . . . but it was the beginnings of a definite maybe, to be sure. As with Kirk a few weeks earlier, everything about her stance spoke of a curiosity, and a hesitance. It was a beginning.

When she placed the stack of PADDs down and turned to leave before either could become aware of her presence, she turned right into McCoy, who was holding Pavel's chart with a scowl on his face. "This is a medbay, not a damn date site," he muttered crankily.

When she smiled a bit too widely, he rolled his eyes at her.

"Just try not to look too proud of yourself. People will start to think that something's up."

"Proud? Me?" she looked up at him as innocently as she could.

McCoy snorted. "No, not you."

He brushed past her and then past Christine, and from the other room she could hear him snapping, "Okay, Sleeping Beauty, go wait for your prince somewhere else." Jim's reply was something groggy but as equally ridiculous.

Rolling her eyes, she made her way back to her quarters. As soon as she walked in she could feel Spock's eyes on her as he felt the satisfaction and contentment rolling off of her in waves.

"You are pleased," he commented.

"You betcha," she confirmed as she unzipped her boots, humming as she did so.

Spock raised a brow. "May I inquire as to what brought on this contentment?"

She merely smiled at him. "Nothing much, just some forward progress with Christine."

"Ah," he said, even though she could feel his confusion at the back of her mind. While he did not dislike the nurse, there was always a discomfort there after the peak he had into her mind.

"I think that she and the Captain may make a nice couple in the future."

"Couple?" he repeated slowly.

"Yes, couple," she confirmed. With a small laugh at his confusion, she leaned over to kiss him briefly on the lips.

Spock's gaze was still contemplative.

"It's a good thing," she mused. "Now I can borrow those boots she was wearing the other day, you know, the violet ones with the Kindoin leather?"

No, he did not know. And yes, he did mutter _'simply illogical'_ under his breath.

And she simply laughed, and considered the whole endeavor a complete success.

**.**

**~MJ**

**.**


	7. Cherish These, For they are Blessings

**Author's Note:** Here we go again. Once again, a big ol' thanks goes to **Jade_eyes** for looking this over for me! :)

* * *

.

**VII:** _"Cherish These, For they are Blessings" _

.

They are six months into their five year mission when they pick up passengers.

. . . and not just any passengers.

A routine stop to Starbase 67 had led to a run to check out a distress calls in one of the farther system's under their watch. The distress call originated from the small trader's moon by the simple name of Outpost III. A sweep of the post had revealed a disturbingly bloody scene left to them to sort through – destruction and chaos evident, with not a body (living or dead) to show for an explanation.

Further searching had revealed twelve children hiding in a storm bunker – the sons and daughters of the permanently stationed overseers, and their caretaker.

The caretaker – a graying, but strong thing of a hundred and twenty years, who had enough snappy comments to even keep Kirk on his toes – had shed some light on the situation. Apparently there had been a displeased trading captain who had some very high ranking contacts in a ring of raiders and pirates that patrolled the quadrant. The caretaker – Vima's knowledge was sketchy, at best, and yet her priority had been the children. She was not involved in either the problem or the problem's conclusion.

When it became apparent that the raiders had taken hostages, the _Enterprise_ was ordered to pursue. Afterwards it was to bring any survivors back to the Starbase for a complete debriefing and relocation.

For now, though, the crew had a few hours on their hands with a handful of children in their hair. While there were measures in place for shipboard children – an almost necessity after having so many officers in the same place for so long - the Captain of the _Enterprise_ was far from a protocol-abiding man, and had insisted that the children join them on the bridge.

The children were young – the youngest hardly months old, and the oldest a mere ten years old. For the most part they did not yet understand what had happened – only that it was bad, and the danger had not completely passed. Mostly, when the kids were introduced to the bridge of a real starship, and not just any starship – but the _Enterprise _herself, there were wide eyes and laughter everywhere.

Vima was thankful for the Captain's helping with the kid's emotional health while he was doing his best to take care to find the remaining survivors, and she did her best to keep the children from being too in the way of the search and rescue effort that was going on. The were well mannered kids, though, and between Pavel – the second oldest of twelve children, and Kirk - a glorified child himself, the kids were entertained and the crew carried on with their duties as well as any normal circumstances would have.

Nyota personally loved having the children on board. While she was the youngest of only two girls, herself, she had grown up babysitting the children that lived around her. She had a maternal instinct that was rarely let out to flourish, so now she took to the task at hand well – even going as far to take the infant from Vima in order to let the older woman take care of the rest of her group.

She was monitoring sub-space frequencies and transmissions on her earpieces, hoping for lingering comm trails for the raiders, all the while juggling the sleeping infant in her arms. The poor thing was exhausted after the stress of the last few days . . .

She felt a pang of sympathy for the child's mother, if she was still alive, and prayed fervently that she somehow knew that her child was alive and being cared for.

At her side was a little boy of eight years – a caramel skinned human with thick black curls trailing over his forehead into his haunted eyes. He, the second oldest of the group, got what was going on the most, and he stuck to his little sister's side with a devotion that was heart wrenching.

"Are you sure you don't want me to hold Ami?" the child was asking, something almost desperate about his tone.

She smiled tenderly at him. "I've got your sister," she assured him. "Why don't you go play with the other children? It'll be good for you to take your mind off of things." She inclined her head to where Kirk was throwing the kids one at a time into the air and catching them. The sound of giggles was thick in the otherwise tense atmosphere of the bridge.

He shook his head, sending little curls flying, "I don't want to play," he was insisting. "I want to help."

That . . . she understood.

She looked a few stations over to where Spock was staring determinedly at his console, most likely trying to pretend that there were no kids on board as he did his job. Children, she knew, were rarely seen on Vulcan in public until they reached an age where they could be taught to hold a logical conversation with a grown member of their race. Even then, they were a seen and not heard commodity. And, with not even the benefit of younger siblings, she could only imagine what havoc this was wrecking on his more orderly tendencies.

And, well, the only way to get better at something was to practice . . .

And if there was one thing she was good at, it was getting her Vulcan to practice things that he'd rather not. "Spock?" she called over, "Kiha here wants to help. There's nothing for him to listen to right now, so would you like to show him what you are doing?"

Spock's head snapped up rather amusingly, an odd set to his face that spoke of a most extreme discomfort to one who knew his looks.

Which she did.

"I am not sure how that would be wise, Lieutenant," he responded carefully.

She smiled winningly at him. "Oh, come on, Commander. I am sure that there is something that you can show him."

The corners of his eyes narrowed just very slightly. In her mind, she could feel his discomfort and annoyance through their connection. Knowing that that worked two ways, she instantly pushed her feelings of pity for the child, and her encouragement back through.

_This boy may just have lost his mother_, she 'thought' as loud as she could. _Give him something to take his mind off of it. _

Her eyes were steely when they met his. In her mind she felt his resolve break at the one single blow she landed on it.

_You can do it_, she pushed at him one last time, and then let her thoughts and emotions tone back down to normal, hoping that that would center him enough to try.

Spock let loose a short breath – a fortifying sigh for a human, and gestured the child over.

Nyota watched him with something a lot like pride.

Kiha cast one long look at his sister, and upon deciding that she was safe and content for the moment, he walked slowly over to the waiting Vulcan.

.

Spock, for his part, understood why Jim had welcomed the children into the bridge . . . that didn't mean that he had to be comfortable with it. He was doing rather well at staying out of the way of the smaller lifeforms, as well, content as he was to be off to the side and lost in his work.

Nyota, as perceptive as she was, understood and empathized with his discomfort . . . but she would not let him sail by so smoothly, not when there was so clearly an opportunity for development.

Sometimes, he really wished that she didn't care as much.

With that thought in his mind, he watched as the small human child walked up to him, a guarded look in his eyes.

After a moment of something like contemplation, the child held up his hand, fingers splayed in the customary salute of his people. "Peace and long life," the child greeted in a choppy butchering of the Vulcan language . . . but it was an honest attempt that gave him pause.

He held his hand up in to mirror the child's gesture, impressed despite himself.

"You are familiar with our tongue?" he asked quietly, almost hopeful.

The child shook his head, shifting his weight. "Um," he said slowly, "I can only say hi . . . bye is a bit harder to say."

He nodded his understanding. As a child the language had taken some adjusting for even him, as it was not designed with the human tongue, or sensibilities for that matter, in mind. "There is a significant shift in the linguistics of the two words, to be sure," he agreed with the child.

The kid turned large eyes on him. "You speak funny," he remarked frankly.

Spock felt a swell of humor from Nyota.

"As do you," he informed the child.

Kiha snorted. "I guess."

Spock was silent while Kiha pulled one of the chairs from another console over so that he could watch what the older man was doing. All the while, Spock watched his progress in the same way one may watch an advancing insect.

"So," Kiha started out softly, "You're a Vulcan?"

"Half," Spock corrected automatically as he moved to adjust a reading on his console. "My mother was human."

Kiha nodded. "We don't see many Vulcans at the post. There's been more lately – a lot are moving through to the new colony, you know, and we're a popular checkpoint."

"I was aware of that," Spock said carefully, as if he wasn't exactly sure how to converse with the child.

"My mom was a linguist," Kiha continued. "She can speak three of the Vulcan languages."

"That is indeed impressive," Spock said.

Kiha nodded, a cloud passing over his eyes as he thought of his mom. He propped his head forward on his little hands, letting loose a long sigh. "She's pretty amazing," Kiha whispered, and then fell silent.

Spock turned to look over at Nyota. If he didn't know any better, he'd describe the uncomfortable emotions thrumming through him as an acute form of helplessness. Nyota inclined her head encouragingly, and he once again felt a swell of pride and love through their connection.

Well then . . .

"I am analyzing samples taken from the colony," Spock told the rather miserable looking child. "Rock fragments around boot prints, and fibers left behind can clue us into a fixed base for the raiders in question. Once a match is found, it stands to reason that we could have a direction to go in."

Kiha looked up, his eyes dark. "So you'll find these guys?"

Spock blinked at him. When he answered, it was not merely the logical answer he gave, but the one he knew the young one needed to hear. "Yes."

"Good," Kiha whispered.

A moment passed, and then Kiha scooted closer in order to peer at the controls. "It all looks like bright lights and numbers to me."

Spock found himself slipping into the roll of teacher – one he found that he could execute well enough. Over the next fifteen minutes or so he pointed out all of the readings, and their functions – the continued searches and analysis he was running from Outpost III, to the standard tests on the ion trails that lingered in the space around them, to the more local shipboard readings. Kiha watched him with eyes that seemed a little less sad as more and more time passed.

When he reached to help gently guide the child's hand over the controls, he realized his mistake, but didn't immediately move to correct himself. While a touch telepath, he could filter out and handle the brunt of the emotions he absorbed due to long association with humans. In crowds he had quickly learned to walk with his hands behind his back, and most people he was introduced to knew better than to initiate a hand shake with a Vulcan unless first offered.

And yet, he was curious now.

When the child's grief first ran through him – a bitter echo of his own feelings only months prior, intensified by the young years and the completely human make-up of the child in question - he could only feel sympathy. As he did with Nyota when she would allow him, he _thought_, and focused as much positive emotion – hope, courage, determination - into the child's psyche as he could, hoping to lessen the burden that he felt there.

He drew away a moment later, looking over at Kiha, who was blinking rapidly.

The child looked at him oddly. "Your mother died on Vulcan?" he asked.

Spock was taken aback for a moment, for it would take a startlingly bright and mentally disciplined child to discern that from his thoughts.

And yet, there was no point in shielding the truth. "Yes," he replied softly, a bitter pang shooting through him at the confirmation – one he suspected that would remain through all of his years.

Kiha took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he whispered. He looked like he was about to hug him, and then thought the better of it. Spock wasn't sure if he was grateful for that or not.

"Do not be so," Spock assured him. "It is a wound that numbs with time."

Kiha nodded, blinking back tears.

"We will find your parents, child," Spock found himself assuring the child, even if it was not a completely true statement. He had no idea at this point if his parents lived or died, but it was easier in the moment to hope, especially when that was what the young one needed.

A few stations over, Nyota was watching them with a concerned expression on her face. He could feel her question against his mind, and moved to assuage her fears. All was well. She nodded, and turned away when the babe in her arms was stirring to wakefulness. The child, after a few sniffles, had settled softly into Nyota's hold, all wide grins and gurgled noises. As he watched her, an odd sort of longing filling him as he observed her with the child. Her movements were smooth and gentle, every inch of her being screaming out a maternalness that was reveling in being out and at the forefront of her actions.

He had a brief vision of her swelling with child, a glow to her skin and a happy set to her eyes as she thought of future things – the pitter patter of little feet, and first steps and first words and unconditional, unquestioned love . . .

Her eyes met his after a moment, no doubt feeling, if not even seeing some of his thoughts through the connection that was growing stronger between them with each and every day.

She smiled softly, and buried her face in the baby's neck. The child cooed happily at the movement, it's hands clutching clumsily at the deep red of her uniform.

The scene was effecting him more than he thought, for a moment later Kiha gave a small snort of laughter. Spock turned to the older child. "May I inquire to what you found to be of comedic value?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing . . . it's just that . . . my dad looked at my mom like that sometimes, mostly when she was holding Ami too. . . . It's nice."

Spock nodded, and clasped a hand over the child's shoulder just once, content to spend the next few moments in silence.

.

.

Six hours later, after four rounds of Red Rover with the captain (twenty rounds of I-spy, and a rather . . . interesting tournament with Kirk's collection of yo-yos and ping pong paddles), some timely results from Spock, and some nifty piloting by Sulu; they found the raiders in an asteroid belt a few systems away. Negotiations were quick – they said no, Kirk said yes – and due to an uprising within the raider ranks, it was a relatively simple thing to beam in and get the hostages out before taking up negotiations again.

They were much more reasonable the second time around.

The majority of the parents were amongst those found. The transporter room was filled with the sounds of childish laughter and joyous crying – all punctuated by McCoy's annoyed calls for order when he tried to treat those who were in need of medical attention, and having none of it.

Within the chaos, Ami and Kiha's parents were found, and it was a touching reunion. Kiha was quick to share all that he learned about Starfleet, and was even quicker to say that it was their(since Spock had let him push the button for the results, he still though that it should all be credited to him, even) findings that led to the rescue. (The raiders had traces of Hindixine on their boots, a mineral only found in certain asteroids of the area.) A tirade filled of every single Vulcan word he had been taught by Spock was cut short when the mother – a short, mocha skinned beauty with her son's eyes - wasted no time before throwing her arms around Uhura in thanks. To Spock she bowed low at the waist, and the emotion in her words was every bit as sincere as it had been to Nyota.

Behind her, her husband was holding the infant, and very gruffly shook hands with them both.

"I think that you have a future officer on your hands," Kirk told them when he made his rounds, beaming rather proudly, and ruffling the kid's hair.

Kiha scowled before smoothing the locks back into place. "Completely illogical," he muttered in an uncanny impression of the first officer.

Kirk blinked at him, and they had all chuckled at that, and not even twenty minutes later, the room was being cleared – letting the families rest in in the ride back to the Starbase, and those who needed medical treatment receive it.

Nyota lingered behind afterwards, flexing the hands which now felt so incredibly empty that she no longer had the child to hold . . .

Spock came up behind her, and placed a hand on her shoulder, understanding her need for physical comfort. With a sigh, she turned into his embrace, resting her head on his uniform, and clutching her slim arms tight about his neck.

"You are unwell," he said, searching against her mind for anything he could do to alleviate her discomfort.

She snorted softly. "I'm not unwell . . ." she said softly. She pressed into him a little more firmly until her words were muffled against his chest. "It's just that . . . I started imagining what a child would look like," she whispered the words like a prayer, a deep secret that she was trusting him to catch and keep safe.

He felt an unexpected pang in his chest as her mental images flashed across his mind's eye . . . of warm toned mocha skin, and curls of black hair. Brown eyes – Nyota's eyes, and a just curving point to the child's ears.

He'd like a girl, he realized with a start. An amazing young woman who would be just like her mother . . .

Nyota sucked in a breath when his imaginings flickered across her mind's eye. "I'd love a girl too," she said softly, a smile in her voice. "Someday?" she looked up at him, hope in her eyes.

"Someday," he answered her.

When he leaned down to kiss her, it was with a promise.

**.**

**~MJ**

**.**


	8. As Saying Would have It

**Author's Note**: Alrighty, I have another one for everyone. I'll get regular with these someday.

As always, a big ol' thanks goes to my beta reader **Jade_eyes**. This one is_ all_ her fault.

* * *

.

**VIII**: _"As Saying Would have it, Absence makes the heart grow fonder(ish)"_

.

Seven months into their five year mission, Nyota's presence was requested by Starfleet back on Earth.

After just completing a three month study of the previously dead Thander dialects – all ten of them, Nyota was requested by the Moscow Linguistics Division of Starfleet for her to share her findings with a Professor Cummings and his aides. The attention of the galaxy renowned professor was a high honor, he knew, one sought by the very best in Xenolinguistics far and wide – and not only by those in Starfleet. Through their bond, he had felt Nyota's glee and pride at the announcement, and he had felt silently gratified as well. While he knew and appreciated Nyota's burgeoning genius, it was truly pleasing when others took note of it as well.

The two weeks apart would be unpleasant, but he was sure that it would be tolerable. The situation was once in a lifetime for Nyota, and logic would dictate ease in their parting for that reason alone.

As it went, he had said goodbye to Nyota that morning when she had beamed down to Starbase 56 in order for her to switch to the long distance transportation they offered. He had been pleased in holding his decorum with just slightly holding Nyota's hand in his as he wished her a fond farewell. Her excitement and mingled affection was a high, filtering through his mind, cutting through the bitter unease he felt at her departure. At his side Kirk had enveloped her in a full hug when he had stepped back. "You do realize that this guy is going to be a complete puppy without you? Hurry back so I can have my crew back at top efficiency, you hear?"

She had chuckled, amused, when he had stiffened. "I can assure you that the Lieutenant's absence will have no bearing on my performance, Captain."

Kirk had shaken his head. "Of course, number one. Of course."

He felt one last press of her mind against his – love and adoration passed between them, and then she was engulfed in rings of gold. He had waited in the transporter room for a moment longer, feeling as she reappeared safely on the spacestation below before turning with Kirk to return to the bridge.

His bond with her was diminished across the great distance, but it still thrived. He found that her peace and anticipation was soothing to him as he carried about his duties for the day. He was pleased with his control when the day ended. He had not overly felt affected by her absence once.

When Kirk made some off-color comment about him returning to his quarters alone, he had not deigned the Captain's teasing worthy of a reply. McCoy had elbowed the Captain in his stead, muttering, 'a complete child' under his breath when Kirk had burst into laughter.

The laughter followed him through the halls, mocking him when he was greeted by the empty rooms.

Ignoring the odd sort of pang he felt inside, he instructed the computer to play Vulcan suites on the lyre, not because the rooms were silent, of course, but because he wanted to hear music. When he prepared a cup of tea, he also put on the coffee, as was habitual. He stopped short halfway through the brewing pot when he had taken Nyota's mug – a hideously bright and crude thing that had been a gift from her Orion roommate – down and placed it next to his. He frowned at the mug as if his lapse in logic was its fault. He placed it back in the storage compartment with a shake of his head.

He drank his tea in silence before moving to the stack of PADDs he had brought with him from the bridge. While filing through the reports he found his eyes flickering to the seat across the common room table to where Nyota normally had her work spread out. He halfway expected to see her there, chewing on the end of her stylus as she hummed softly under her breath in whatever language she was working with. His own work was gathered in a tight corner of the table, seeing as how her work tended to monopolize the space when she became too engrossed in what she was doing. The table was empty now. The chair vacant.

His discomfort was illogical. So he turned the music up to a level he normally found displeasing and resolutely kept his eyes trained on his work. It worked, for a time being.

If, that night, he was to meditate for 1.23 hours longer than was normally necessary, then he was not one to dwell on it. And, that night, when he found himself uncomfortable in the middle of the bed, he was not one to acknowledge that he was hugging her pillow to him in order for sleep to come more quickly.

When he felt her mind brush against his in a soft good-night from across the stars, he found he was then able to sleep.

.

He awakened early the next day. The spot on the bed next to him was cold.

He prepared tea, and steadfastly left Nyota's mug where it was. When he prepared for the day, he did so in silence, not even turning to music. There was a determination in his mind that was blocking out any thoughts of her, making him thankful in that moment for his mixed heritage. That day he performed his duties quietly and efficiently, and only a small part of him noticed the absence of Kirk and Nyota's bickering – such a routine part of bridge life that he was surprised that not everyone didn't take note of it.

When the Captain asked him for an evening of chess, he didn't know whether or not to thank Kirk's insights or to bristle at the implication that he needed . . . companionship.

When he beat the Captain quicker and more consecutively than he had since they first started their tradition of chess, Kirk said nothing.

But he did chuckle and shake his head to himself when Spock finally took his leave near the end of the night rotation.

From across the stars he felt Nyota's humor – she had observed his determination, no doubt, and her voice whispered across his mind. "Feel better?"

Her humor was soothing, and that night he fell asleep quicker than the last, content with his ability to handle their time apart.

.

The next three days were spent in negotiations with the previously untouched planet of Gaug Vee. The leaders did not take well to the offworlders beaming to their planet, nor did they take well to their overtures of peace. When talks deteriorated and a hostage situation was upon them, he had little time for missing or thoughts of her.

The whole of the conflict through, he could feel her in his mind. She was concerned. Her heart pounded in time with his when adrenaline flooded his veins, the ancient steps of his people's battle arts acted out again and again until those that were theirs were taken home. Safe again.

_Safe_. The words resonated from her mind to his and back again until he could not tell where it had started or ended.

He contacted her that night, because sometimes seeing her face was as necessary as feeling her presence in his mind.

"You're hurt," was the first thing that she said. Her eyes wide as she lifted her hand as if she could touch him were they not but images to each other.

He was scraped, bloodied and bruised, but he felt remarkably well looking on at her. "All superfluous injuries, I can assure you."

Her gaze was measured, contemplative. "You're sure?"

He felt a humor rise in him, one that did not reach his face.

"I am positive that I understand the condition of my own body, and have conveyed my well being to you accurately."

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. "All that, huh?"

He raised a brow, and her smile grew. When he became aware of the moments they spent just . . . making eyes, as Jim would call it, he ventured to say, "Your presence was sorely missed today. While Lieutenant Conrad is an excellent officer, he has no where near your talent or sensitivity with new tongues. Much could have been avoided with your presence today."

She heard the_ 'I miss you'_ that leaked into his words, past all of his attempts to the contrary.

"Aww, now you're just being sweet."

He raised a brow, "I would comment on the absurdity of that statement, were I not familiar with your use of endearments."

"Duly noted," she drawled, her voice overly-formal.

The rest of their conversation passed pleasantly, she had insightful and quick witted insights on the professor and his team. And her descriptions of Moscow were particularly amusing. In the end, she could have been talking about the tunneling practices of Banvarian mud fleas, and he would have been enraptured by the sound of her voice, the way her lips formed over her words as she spoke with growing enthusiasm. He felt something like peace listening to her.

He could feel that his mind was starting to border on the . . . mushy, as Jim had also defined it, and determined that an added two hours of meditation may prove useful to him.

He let her go an hour later when she said she was running late for a conference, and stared at the screen after it went black for longer than it was logical to do so.

.

Over a week has passed.

A week, two days, ten hours, twenty-seven minutes, and thirteen seconds. Fourteen now. The part of him that was unduly good at keeping track of time was most unhelpful at times, reinforcing that which did not need to be so.

Fifteen seconds, now.

His eyes narrowed as he stared at his monitor, his whole form stiff and uneasy. He was not at his best working order, he knew. Just earlier Ensign Hijo had pointed out not one, but two errors in his coding for the new generator for the Andlin genomes, and the diagnostics before him now were taking him much longer than was acceptable.

While he was not moping, he knew he was . . . tense as of late. There was something missing to his mind, something far from complete that he was always used to being so.

When he was younger, he had not understood why his mother had accompanied his father on every off world venture that she could. The bond in their minds was a powerful one, and she literally would have faded without his presence.

Even now he felt acutely, while not a missing, an absence. One he was not quite sure how to define or fix. It was one he was not quite sure he wanted too.

Seventeen seconds, now.

With a determined sort of look, he turned back to his console again. This would not have the better of him.

In the back of his mind, Nyota was trying her best to pay attention to the professor's lectures, and he felt some satisfaction, however small at that. He could 'see' the roll of her eyes, and then the connection faded even more. She needed to concentrate, as did he.

Twenty seconds.

This would be a long shift, indeed.

.

He was drinking tea out of her mug now.

When he passed Kirk in that hall with it he raised a brow, as if daring him to say anything about it.

.

The next day they returned to the planet of Cahi on Federation business, and he took a shore leave in order to clear his mind. While a visit to the capitol had been wise in theory, he found memories of Nyota chasing him wherever he went. He remembered her reaction to the street vendors, and her laughter at the fire jugglers on the corner. He remembered that that cafe had a tea she found atrocious – one that he quite enjoyed, of course. Across the way was a theater where they had seen Shakespeare performed in the clicking tongue of Cahin – which had been most fascinating on every level of the word.

Her laughter lingered on the air next to him, he could feel it tickle at his skin.

He finally felt an irritation at his inability to control this . . . emotion. It was ridiculous. His control was such that he shouldn't be affected to this degree.

He cut off his mental musings when they started to sound oddly petulant – like Jim when Starfleet didn't necessarily agree with him on the path ahead.

Perhaps, this night he would spend in meditation and be better on the morning rise.

When he left Cahi, he did not feel an urge to return.

.

Three days before her return, he comes to a head over his emotions. While he understood that some level of discomfort was to be experienced over their separation, he knows that he has reached a point that was almost illogical. Or was so, to be more accurate.

His determination to feel nothing that day through took him through the morning hours – he drank tea out of his own mug, and the cold state of the bed around him did not bother him once. The scent of jasmine and vanilla had faded from the pillows, and where it lingered on the air around him he paid no heed. The pair of earings that she left on the dresser he finally put away instead of fingering them as he did every morning.

He passed the morning in silence – no music was needed, and he was exemplary at his work that shift.

He felt confident of his control when they came into orbit around an uncharted planet. When the planet was declared safe for a landing party, he was quick to get his sampling kits ready when Jim got the team together.

When Lieutenant Conrad was amongst their group he felt a pang of something that was suspiciously like irritation . . . which was most peculiar indeed. The Lieutenant was a fine officer, and talented, if not possessing the natural inclination Nyota had that made linguistics an art . . . There was no logical reason for his discomfort with the other officer.

He simply wasn't Nyota . . . and a very human part of him, hidden and fought against, and deep, felt an annoyance that the man unravel all of his careful work of not missing her.

When they reached the planet – a beautiful world with violet skies and unending silver forests, they met the native populace within the first ten minutes. The natives were kind, if not a bit underdeveloped in their ways of thinking and their technology (which was but nonexistent).

Conrad struggled with the new language, even going as far to mistranslate the word 'greetings' with 'spear fishing.'

He tried very hard not to be annoyed with the man's slow progress. While rolling with a new language was a very difficult talent to cultivate, he couldn't help but feel that Nyota could have done better than this. Much better.

He felt her amusement in his mind._ "He's not doing that bad, ashal-veh. Take a deep breath."  
_  
The brief contact with her seemed to burn. The bond between them was strained. Overtaxed, even. Soon, he knew it would be too much for her to even access until she returned and it was regulated again.

"Well, that explains a lot," her voice was stating next. "I thought I was just being one of those clingy girls waiting miserable without a man at her side."

She was effected too. This lifted his low spirits, even as he felt a sorrow that she should be put through this.

He got the mental equivalent of a shrug, and then the contact broke when it became too much for her to handle. The bond was heavy to her at that point. It was now as painful as it was soothing. The contact seemed to burn, not reinforced as it was by actually seeing her, having her within his reach. His hands were shaking from it. Odd, he had not thought that their mental connection would make it this difficult. It was unforeseen, and completely unexpected.

He wasn't quite sure what to do about it.

And that moved his foul disposition like nothing the days prior had done.

When Conrad's voice grated at his nerves more than was logical, he walked off a few paces, content on collecting his samples in peace. There was something soothing about the work. While he was working he was not thinking about her, and he was not thinking about ways to make Conrad's insipidness shine most obviously to the rest of the away team.

This was safe. He was angry at himself for needing this time alone.

Kirk's voice came from a few paces away. He had followed him. "Man, you are so whipped. You know that, right?"

The stem of the plant he was examining broke in his hand. He blinked down at it. "I know not what you refer to, Captain."

"Sure you don't," Kirk was looking at him funny, and he had that smile that meant some sort of smart remark or other was coming.

He held a hand up to it. "Captain, if I could ask you not to comment before you actually do, I would be most pleased."

Kirk shrugged. "I was going to tell you to go back to the ship and get some rest. You look like you could need it."

He nodded. "Thank-you, Captain."

In the end, he knew that he had got off too easily. "And don't worry number one – she'll be back the day after next. You can go back to being the cold as ice Vulcan we all know and love."

He rolled his eyes, and muttered _'completely illogical'_ under his breath. But he did not counter the Captain's words.

Two days.

He could do this.

.

He spent the next day in the lab working on the samples he had gathered. If Kirk somehow arranged schedules so that he was left in peace, he wasn't sure to be thankful or irked . . . a conundrum he often faced around the Captain.

Kirk did not win one game of chess that night.

After a particularly vicious game, Jim rubbed at the back of his head, confused as to how he had lost in so few moves. "I can't wait until your girl comes back so that I can get some of my self-esteem back."

If he was to take a little more time to beat him the next game around, then neither said nothing to it.

.

She was due back today.

That morning he made tea and set to coffee on so that it would be ready when she returned. She was always tired after traveling, he knew. He was ridiculously pleased as he took out her mug and placed it neatly next to the brewing pot.

He did not meditate. He felt no need.

When he had the computer play music he was most adamantly not skipping to it. He was simply walking with purpose. That was logical . . . anything else was not.

The bond he shared with Nyota – which he had not accessed the whole day prior due to it's strain – opened slightly at his prodding, and he could feel her combined impatience with the transit system and her anticipation upon seeing him again. Her emotions flooded through him, soothing over every harsh place that had been rubbed raw the last few weeks.

Her amusement was there as well, and so he let the bond taper off again. There was no need that anyone outside of his own mind see just how . . . human he was being.

He shook his head, and reported to the bridge for the hour before Nyota was due. He had to physically restrain his fingers from tapping against the console. He was inwardly grateful for his internal clock, seeing as how it would be illogical to glance at the chrono every three minutes.

An hour passed, and then Kirk excused him – for the rest of the day. His precise words were: "Go say hi to your girl before you drive us all mad. Seriously, that's an order." . . . The gist of the words were the same, to be sure.

He was grateful that the Captain didn't follow him, though. There would be time to give her greetings to the others later. Much later.

He reached the transporter room, glad to see that there was only one ensign working the controls – an officer who had turned up at Nyota's evenings with Nurse Chapel and Janice Rand more often than not. He was content with that.

On the space-station below them he could feel her enthusiasm. She was skipping where he refused to. She was shifting her weight from foot to foot on the transporter pad, unduly annoyed with the ensign below who couldn't operate a simple control . . . Her ire was soothing to feel once more as well. It washed through him, their bond growing in strength the closer they were to each other.

He felt through her as gold engulfed her. A moment passed. She was hardly corporal again before he was bounding up in one stride, two . . . and then he was holding her. She let out a puff of breath in surprise, her eyes wide with delight as she laughed out his name, "Spock? What are you doing?"

His answer was lost to her when he wasted no time in bending down to steal her breath in a kiss. This was not the gentle one he would give to her in public on rare occasions, but a searing thing that took and gave from a deep need. He was almost rough as he tangled a hand at the base of her head, tilting her up to meet him more deeply. His other hand wound around her back, pressing the length of her against him. She molded instantly against him, meeting his every impassioned move with those of her own. Against her mouth he traced how much he missed her, while in her breath he sucked in her contentment in reply. Her mind twined with his, complete once more. He passed his affection and his struggles of the past few weeks to her, and she caught them while allowing him to sooth her own.

He was complete in that moment, and drew back only when decorum demanded it. There would be time for a more thorough welcoming later, to be sure. Her mind instantly provided dozens of ideas, and he was hard pressed not to smile at them all.

In the end, he merely rested his forehead against hers, and breathed in deep of her scent, soaking as he was in her presence. "I take it you missed me?" she said, her eyes glittering mischievously.

"No more than was reasonable, to be sure," he responded, trying to give the command to his limbs to release her. His body was being quite uncooperative.

"I missed you too," she breathed, and he kissed her again. Once, gently.

When she became aware of a proud clapping from her friend at the controls, Nyota glared daggers. But he could feel her amusement.

"I have coffee prepared for you," he told her, stepping away. "I would very much enjoy hearing of your trip in detail."

She twined her hand through his as they walked away. "I would very much enjoy that too."

When, the next day, they both came to the alpha shift together, Kirk wasted no time in sweeping his Communications Lieutenant into a hug, even as his first officer glared daggers at him. (As much as he was prone to glaring said daggers, anyway.)

"Don't you ever leave, ever again," Kirk was breathing into her hair. "I haven't won a game of chess in two weeks, and let me tell you – that does things to a man's ego."

Nyota's laughter answered that as she slapped Kirk away, and the crew around them joined in with them. Spock stepped back contentedly, feeling everything in its right place again.

**.**

**~MJ**

**.**


	9. Calmly, I Find a Lull to My Sea In You

**Author's Notes**: Sorry for the absence, life has been hectic the last few months, and I have been sorely remiss with my duties. I hope you enjoy this further outpouring of fluff (sheesh, I think that I am giving myself cavaties) . . . As always, this is made possible by the ever lovely **Jade_eyes**. Thanks for everything!

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**IX**: _"Calmly, I find a lull to my sea in you" _

He spent the first few hours of every morning in meditation.

His mixed blood made it so that he required not even half of the hours Uhura spent every night in sleep. So, hours before she would awaken he would get up and prepare for the day. There was a meditation mat in a small alcove before their bedroom, made complete by an ever constant drift of incense from the burner there and equally low burning candles. The early hours of the morning could find him there day after day. These hours were as peaceful as they were necessary for him. In these hours he was able to center himself as the candlelight rippling on the metallic toned walls, and he recited Surak's mantras under his breath in time to Nyota breathing in the next room.

He had let her join him once, after she had awakened. There was something . . . soft that touched him as he tried to teach her the ways of his people. He had felt a joy at teaching her how to breathe; how to hold herself. He had instructed her to close her eyes, and he had mumbled softly under his breath as he pressed his first two fingers gently over her closed lids to keep her eyes closed. He could feel her smile at his thumbs, and found a peace in that small gesture that hours of candles and mantras could sometimes leave him lacking.

While she had admitted that the sessions brought a peace over her, it was not as necessary for her as it was vital for him. She had then divulged that she had found it as peaceful to watch him as it was to join him in the ritual. Ever since then, he could be aware of her eyes on him shortly after she would awaken. She would stand against the door quietly, a small smile curving to her lips as she observed him. Her gaze was as peaceful as the routines that were as needed for his psyche as air itself.

And yet, what he enjoys most about those hours, is the heightened awareness that it gave him. He could hear the rustle of silk and sheets as she rose from bed, and he could feel the echo of her footsteps across the floor. Through their bond he could feel her contentment, could feel her heartbeat echoing alongside his own as he purged himself of the world around him. The scent of her morning coffee rose and twined with the incense before him, and the sound of her humming under her breath swirled in his mind under the customary mantras he muttered.

Every morning, she would bring him out of his trance with cool fingers against his hands, reminding him that it would be time to leave soon. And every time he opened his eyes to see her small smile, he found a center that he thinks he has been looking for his entire life.

.

.

Every week, on the third day, Spock spent the hour before his shift in one of the practice rings with Kirk.

While there were many things she understood and enjoyed from Spock's mixed heritage, she thinks that the Suus Mahna routines are her favorites at times. She remembered the first time she had seen him indulging in the martial arts – back at the academy, her and Gaila in jogging attire on the treadmills, and Spock leading a group of cadets through the katas with a singularly effortless grace.

She had not looked away then until her Orion roommate had passed her a cold water bottle with a coy wink and an appreciative sigh.

Later, as their relationship had progressed, Spock had only talked about his proficiency with hand to hand combat on a time or two. It was a way of centering the body and the mind, not a form of violence, as it very easily could have been. The teachings and the theories behind the art – because that was what it truly was – reminded her of the far eastern philosophies on Earth. She had told him that she . . . enjoyed it all the same. If there had been a little too much stress on the word enjoy at the time, then he had made no comment to it.

Upon being stationed on the [i]Enterprise[/i], he had taken to performing the regular routines on a basis, at first as a source of exercise of body and mind, and then in the roll of teacher once again. Apparently, Kirk, remembering the fighting style that had him so effortlessly beat on the day of Vulcan's destruction, was a curious student. He was a fast learner, taking to the force and effectiveness of the routines if not with the grace of, but the skill of a dedicated fighter. Slowly but surely, everything about the Captain that had been an ever so accomplished bar brawler was becoming something deadly and refined between lessons with Spock and Sulu both.

And, if she were to start out on the other side of the gym, dutifully going through her own routines, and end up on the bleachers set up around the more distant sparring rings, then no one was to say anything. And if, these occasions coincided with the times that the two managed to be shirtless due to the exhortation, then she still found that no one could fault her.

Today, like every other day she took her spot on the bleachers as they warmed up. Their light banter tinkled on the cool air, back and forth in the easy rhythm that the two had taken to like fishes to water. She could feel Spock's amusement at the back of his mind, which grew when Kirk caught her eye with a playful wink. As Spock was showing him the correct positioning for that particular routine, Kirk teasingly struck pose after ridiculous pose, flexing his muscles in a ridiculous show. He wagged his eyebrows insinuatingly, as he said, "See something you like, Lieutenant?"

She rolled her eyes and said something about finding the muscle structure of a Cordarin (or lack thereof) more interesting. Kirk, suitably repentant, laughed slightly and turned back to Spock, who had watched the encounter with a raised brow. If Kirk went down in record time during the first set, he didn't say anything to it save for a sheepish smile and a muttering of, "It was just a joke."

She tried very hard not to laugh.

Because really, there was no contest. Yes, Kirk's form had the beginnings of bulk that age would only increase, and he was what most women on the ship would flutter and sigh dreamily over, but he really wasn't to her tastes. The rest of the female population could keep the blue eyed Adonis, she was quite happy with her man. More than happy.

Because, really, what she found so pleasing about watching Spock in times like these, was that he seemed unaware of her appreciation. In contrast to Kirk's strutting and posing, Spock hardly looked up at her. His grace was a natural one, something almost feline and fluid that was a testimate to the alien blood running inside of him. The confident assurance without arrogance as he eased his body through the motions made his appeal completely unintentional, which only added to her enjoyment. His build was akin to that of a swimmer or a runner, as opposed to Kirk's more defined tone - all long lines that emphasized the smooth play of muscle over muscle under perfectly delicious snow white skin . . .

She sighed dreamily as she watched Spock ease into the routines, the movements perfectly showing off every delectable thing he had to offer . . . Her eyes remembered where her hands had traced every inch of that skin before, remembered the jump of the muscles under her fingers where she had found every sensitive spot . . .

In the back of her mind, she could hear his chiding voice. Apparently, she was distracting him. In answer, she stuck her tongue between her teeth as she smiled at him. Part of her enjoyed flustering him more than she cared to admit. But, seeing as how she really didn't want him to put a shirt on, she reigned in her thoughts as much as she could . . . or merely toned back on the intensity of their bond, if she was completely honest with herself.

Kirk had watched the subtle back and forth, shaking his head before glumly muttering, "I just don't get it."

Spock raised a brow, but would not comment on the matter as he launched into a detailed explanation on how this set of moves centered the mind and calmed the flow of thought. Kirk was more interested in the philosophies than he'd ever admit, she knew.

And as to his prior confusion . . . well, it was just much more fun to let the Captain linger in the dark about some things rather than attempting to enlighten him. Besides, she had much more important things to do . . . they were moving again, and she didn't want to miss a thing.

.  
.

For the most part, the only discrepancies of his dual nature could be found in a curious balance of emotion and logic only. Physiologically, he was seamless, a strangely whole combination of human eyes and Vulcan blood and heart. Physically, he was superior to human strength, and yet he would not live the very long life that Vulcan's expected . . . although he would live longer than a human lifespan, he knew. Thoughts of outliving Nyota were those he tried not to think of unless his mood was black and she was far away so as to not pick up on his morose thoughts.

And, from his nature, the very thing that he took pride in was not any of these things – it was his mind. By human standards, he was a genius, and even by Vulcan standards he was gifted. Under the thick bindings that Surak's teachings gave him, his mind moved at a mile a minute, constantly shifting and computing and sorting through problems and numbers and a hundred other fascinating things. He remembered the first time he had touched minds with Nyota . . . how amazed she had been to see everything that truly went on behind the admittedly blank face he presented to the world.

At times, though, it was hard to turn these thoughts off.

A full blooded Vulcan required approximately five hours of sleep every three day cycle. A human required at least eight hours daily. He could get by closer to the Vulcan average of sleep . . . but there were times when he needed more. Still, his mind was Vulcan, and unaccustomed to shutting down and resting so often.

It made for many restless nights for him, nights when he was tired beyond reason, and still his mind worked itself in circles past where even extra hours of meditation could grant him peace.

Nyota had fallen asleep over an hour ago – as he had tried to do as well. It was a frustrating situation at times.

"You're sighing," she mumbled sleepily from next to him. She was using him as a pillow instead of her pillow itself, and she had her one hand laid flat on the side of his chest that wasn't occupied. She could feel him breathe, he knew. She had said before how she found it soothing.

"My apologies, Nyota," he whispered. "I shall try not to impede your slumber any longer."

He could feel her snort in a quick breath. It tickled his skin. "No one should be allowed to talk smart this late."

Talk smart?

"Okeon," she mumbled, a deity's curse left over from her time with her Orion roommate, "I can [i]hear[/i] you raise your brow."

Said brow did lift at that.

"That is illogical," he whispered, "as there is no sound in the movement."

She gave a snort, one he had come to recognize that as amusement from her. Amusement at his expense. She sounded more alert now, and he felt a moment's remorse for rousing her. She needed her sleep more than he did.

She heard his thoughts. "You need to as well," she said, propping up on one arm to look at him, her brow dipped in concern. "You're going a mile a minute in here," she said, tapping the side of her head.

He blinked, the equivalent of a shrug. "It is nothing outside of the norm."

"That's not good, you know." She frowned, every line about her face speaking of a deep thought. "Have you tried counting sheep?" she finally said.

He did raise a brow at that. Again. It seemed to be the logical thing to do. "Counting sheep?" he repeated slowly, as if to make sure that he had heard her correctly.

Her laughter was light on the night air. "Yeah, counting sheep."

"A human custom that I am unaware of, I take it?"

"I guess," she said with a smile. "It's just well . . . exactly what the name would imply. You count sheep in your mind until your brain shuts itself off. It lets you sleep then."

"That is . . ." he tapered off, trying to think of a proper word to express his thoughts on the custom.

"Illogical?" she supplied.

"Different," he hedged.

She snorted. "Sure."

She laid back down, snuggling into him until he wrapped both of his arms around her. He could feel her breath against his skin, could feel the lazy beat of her heart against the warmth of his body. It was soothing.

_One sheep . . . two sheep . . . three sheep _. . . He felt ridiculous.

He felt it as her lips curved into a smile. "It's not ridiculous," she muttered. "Give it an honest chance."

He took in a deep breath before closing his eyes once again. He would try, just to humor her. He started to count once again, this time more slowly. As her breathing deepened and her pulse fluttered lazily in time to the . . . _sheep_ parading in his mind, he slowly found himself lulling off beside her as well.

.

.

There were times, for a race that prided themselves on their logic and the strength of their reason, that the Vulcan culture was beautiful just for the sake of being beautiful.

Most of these instances were found before the Dawn of Reason, before the teachings of Surak . . . centuries ago, when their poetry was alive with passionate words and their art lived and breathed feeling – vice and pain and passion and a hundred other inspired things. Now, the culture was sedate, bound by control and an ever constant need for logic and serenity.

And still, some of these things found a way through.

She disliked the majority of modern Vulcan poetry, it was too dull compared to its lyrical predecessors, and while she could appreciate modern art, it was often too streamlined, too simple and uninspiring to truly grasp her admiration.

Vulcan music though . . . that was one area in their culture where emotion still thrived, unintentionally, or not. She remembered once, way back at the beginning of her acquaintance with him at the academy, where he had hypothesized that music was an exorcizing of emotions as much as it was an embodiment of them. It was a way to channel what logic and meditation could simply just will away.

Spock played the ka'athyra with an easy skill that she had not yet seen in any other Vulcan. If music was a way of channeling unwanted things from their psyche . . . then Spock channeled much through his playing. Both mourning and wistful by turns, the tunes were always something that drew her ear whenever she was around, her fingers staying at her work, and her acute hearing picking up every thread of melody and harmony that he admitted.

It was something that he was passionate about – she had seen that when she had first heard him play, years ago. The ka'athyra had gleamed from it's place of honor in his rooms, speaking of many a night spent in polishing and careful maintenance. The instrument was perfectly tuned and perfectly cared for. The ease with which his fingers glided over the strings spoke of many a year of practicing and dedication . . . those fingers caressing the instrument had been one of the initial things that had sired her attraction for him. The care and reverence she had found there, the attention to detail that he spent in anything – whether it be a new language or a new specimen of flora – had birthed a new intensity to her admiration for him.

Part of her thought he knew that.

Since Amanda's death, the tunes that he had played had been darker in nature, their chords choking at her lungs until it was hard to breathe. The emotion there was raw and heavy on the air, all the while carrying a softness to it. There was letting go in the mourning she heard that perhaps touched her more than anything else . . . At the end of long missions, the tunes would be slower, more mellow. When they lost those of their own, the tunes would weigh hard on her shoulders. They sounded like requiems. And sometimes, when a day had gone well, or he looked at her with [i]that[/i] glow in his eyes . . . the tunes would be light things. Searingly beautiful and passionate things that hit at that tender spot right below her heart where he permanently seemed to dwell.

And when he would attempt to teach her how to play, leaning over her shoulder as he placed his hands over hers, moving her fingers for her, she would marvel at the ease with which he taught her, the tenderness with which he spoke to her.

When she finally produced a melody that was somewhat pleasing to the ears, she whispered a faint, "Beautiful," without looking at the instrument at all.

.  
.

There were times when he felt the weight of his mixed blood acutely. While not always in a detrimental nature – he was proud of his lineage on both sides, and knew that his unique bloodlines meant that he had much to offer – there were times when it weighed acutely on him. There were many things that assisted with him – logic that bound the emotions that were too Vulcan and controlled the impulses that were too human.

And then there were times when he found that he didn't need any of these things – he has found a centering in her. As illogical as the thought was, it was one that was true. It was a thought that gave him peace even as he thought it, cooling everything in him that was a raging sea, tempest tossed and longing to be soothed.

**.**

**~MJ **

**.**


	10. As You Love Our Pride and Joy pt I

**Author's Note**: Soooo, it's been a while, hasn't it. Remeber this? Kinda, maybe . . . Anyway, for those of you old and new, I am happy to announce that this story only has five chapters left. And they are all written. Also in this universe, me and Jade_eyes have been working on quite a number of short stories (amongst which will be a complete overhall of the Mirror, Mirror story line and a few original ideas), and I have a collection of drabbles and ficlets too. All of which shall be posted more promptly than this was. lol!

As always, thanks so much for everyone who has read and enjoyed this as much as we have!

* * *

**Part X**_: "As you love our Pride and Joy" _

They were six months into their five year mission when Uhura received an unexpected transmission from her mother.

She first heard the computer's tone informing her of the message; had stopped dead in her tracks and looked over at the communication's console out of the corner of her eyes. If she was to hesitate once before walking over to accept the message, no one was there to call her out on it. If she then stood before the console with a thoughtful and hesitant expression, her fingers hovering before tapping the accept key with uncertainty, then there was no one to call her out on that as well.

Taking her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes shadowed as she looked at the blinking red light before her; unsure.

It wasn't that she wasn't close with her mother . . . it was quite the opposite in fact. Her family was not anything less than tight knit, and in the months prior it would have been unheard of for her to hesitate before accepting the transmission. Well . . . it wasn't as much of a hesitation so much as it was an reluctance, she knew. A reluctance brought on by six months of . . . awkward, if not downright painful communications that skirted around a breach that she had made and had been unsure of just of to fix.

You see, her parents had been . . . _surprised_, she guessed was the right word when she had informed them of certain attachments that were previously undisclosed. Back at home, she had always immersed herself in her studies, and truthfully, she had never given much thought to the opposite sex. She had close male friends . . . but the line was never really crossed into something deeper. During her University days she had dated a time or two, but never really anything more than to make sure that she wasn't really depriving herself of everything life had to offer . . . she had her plan, at the time – graduate from the African University of Linguistics, and then Starfleet at the top of her class. Secure a position aboard the _Enterprise_ . . . in about ten years time she would have a senior position, and then – _then_, she would think about a man.

And then she had met Spock, a Commander and a professor both, while she was a mere first year Cadet – and a student at that, and that whole plan was shot to the furthest stars and back. Her attraction in those first two years was something she had kept from everyone – except a very perceptive Gaila – and once the relationship began, she had not said anything. While not forbidden, they were delving into gray areas, and it was better to let no one know until they were on equal ground. Upon graduation, there would have been few regulations frowning on their relationship, and she determined she would tell her family then.

At the time, a year's wait had seemed trifle.

In the end, she had told her family about their relationship shortly after the encounter with Nero, before leaving for the _Enterprise_ once again. Akilah had been puzzled, but not angry. Moumbwa, her father - who had long since encouraged her to balance a working life with a personal life, and whom she had always been closer to - was more hurt that she had kept it from them for so long. Almost a year. There was a division there, she knew. One that she had caused and was now making endeavors to heal.

. . . in a way, at any rate.

While all of their communications since then had been amiable, she had not been quite sure how to bring Spock up again. Moumbwa had been unusually silent the last few months, and Akilah had been everything amiable and kind . . . but her attachment had not been spoken of since that initial conversation.

And now, she was merely frustrated that _she_ – a linguist down to every level – could not find the words to broach the topic of the figurative elephant in the room.

She hesitated once before touching the screen with a determined finger. The cool gray shimmered before showing her Akilah Uhura's kind face on the viewscreen before her. "Habari, my daughter," she greeted.

Nyota inclined her head. "Sijambo, Mother," she gave in return.

Akilah Uhura was a strong woman nearing her fiftieth year. Her skin was a deep tone of charcoal shaded sepia, and her eyes a rich shade of chocolate so warm that they seemed to glitter gold near the edges. Her hair was done in dozens of tiny braids which were tied together at the base of her neck with a vibrant violet scarf that matched the dress she wore. Large golden globes hung from her ears, which were matched by the rings she wore about her neck that trailed down to secure the front of her wrap around dress. Her features were sharper than an Terran human's, her chin and nose pointed and her large oval eyes sharply tapering near the edges, speaking to the foreign blood she carried in her veins. The rest of Nyota's father's family bore strong African roots, and it showed in their gently curving and generous features.

She personally thought that her mother was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, and was glad to have inherited a few of her features.

"It has been long since we have had the pleasure of hearing from you," Akilah's voice was chiding, the rich and deep tenors of her tone denoting a subtle rebuke.

She inclined her head. When she wiped her hands on her uniform, they were clammy. "Things have been crazy," she said.

"I understand a hectic schedule," Akilah nodded. "And yet, that never stopped you from making time for us before."

"I'm sorry, Mother," she whispered, her voice truly repentant.

"I actually have contacted you in behalf of your father," Akilah said, the crisp edges of her tone denoting that she was moving on to business.

Nyota leaned forward to the screen, curious now. "What does Baba want?"

Akilah smiled gently, but past a mischievous look to her eyes, she did not answer. Instead, she inquired, "Your course will coincide with Majar III within the next standard week, will it not?"

Nyota gave her mother a quizzical look. "It will," she answered carefully. The day after next, actually. "How did you know?" The _Enterprise's_ route wasn't exactly public knowledge – but neither was it confidential.

Akilah inclined her head. "I have my ways."

"There was bribery involved?" she teased gently.

"Now, would I stoop to such lengths?"

Nyota simply raised a brow in answer.

Akilah gave a mock sigh. "I am not guilty of the methods which you think me of – the Majarians are simply terrible gossips and even worse poker players."

It took a second or two for the statement to register in all of its meaning. "You're on Majar right now?" she questioned, her voice a little weak.

Akilah was watching her closely. Nyota did her best 'Spock-face'.

"Along with your father," Akilah answered.

Nyota let a breath out through her nostrils. It made sense – Majar was a major stop in the Alpha sector's primary trading routes, and was a popular site for diplomatic gatherings. Her father would have much to do there if a delegate he translated for had duties to attend to.

"How is your trip so far?" Nyota asked conversationally. "I've heard the Maji berries are great so close to the fall season, and the Karria schedule must have just started." Her father was an avid patron of the Galactic Opera Circuit – which had everything from traditional Earthen arrangements like Charles Gronoud's Faust to Betazoid Empathetic Arrangements, and even Habiti clicking epics (watching that cast put on classics like Mozart and Verdi was a treat both interesting and enlightening, to be sure). The Karria Opera House was one of the major stops of the art inclines 'hit' list.

Akilah smiled gently. "The berries agree with me – not with your father; who has already seen _Eugene Onegin_ twice – once in Russian, and once in Majarian."

She smiled as she thought of Tchaikovsky's masterpiece in the Majarian tongue. It would have been interesting, to be sure.

"Who played Tatyana?" she asked. Her father was long a fan of a soprano who could do the poor girl's roll justice.

"Amishia Karindos – a debut for her in a roll like this."

She recognized the name not only from her father's ramblings; but from Spock's as well. Both men had a fondness for the Karithian circuit and the singers it produced.

"Baba must be pleased."

"Beyond pleased," Akilah muttered. While one who indulged in the arts, it did not flow through her like they did her father's. Her father was the one who had furthered her own interest in vocals – she had been in choirs for most of my life. While she enjoyed purely classical work, there was a beauty to things sung that she empathized with – it was another way to enjoy language at its finest.

"He hopes," Akilah said carefully, "that you'll find time to see it with him. You have a shore leave that could be arranged, no doubt?"

"Of course!" she explained. She was eager to see her family. In her eagerness, it was easy to forget the unclosed and unspoken topic between them. Until -

"And you will bring your mwungwana with you?"

Nyota blinked. If she had been drinking something, she was sure that she would have choked. "Mama?" she tried when her voice had came to her.

"Your gentleman . . . your mwungwana," Akilah said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly slow child.

Nyota rolled her eyes. "I haven't been away from home _that_ long, mama."

"Just making sure," Akilah's eyes were smiling.

Sobering, Nyota looked curiously at her mother. "You want to meet Spock?"

Akilah raised a brow, "You say that as if this a surprising thing."

"No," she backpedaled, her cheeks flushing. "It isn't at all – it's just . . . it's just sudden. I was surprised." Two days, her mind went around in horror. _Two._

"I thought that the year of preparation may have helped you prepare for this moment," Akilah said dryly.

Her flush deepened. "That's not fair," she said quietly.

Akilah snorted, "I never said it was, dear." Her mouth smiled gently where her eyes did not.

She figured that she deserved that. "So . . ." she still faltered, her words failing her as her hands shrugged uselessly before her.

Akilah raised a brow at her unease. "He is important to you, no?"

"Of course."

"Then you will make time for us," Akilah said firmly. "Unless he is not important -"

"Mama -"

" - I do not want to meet a passing ship, Nyota. Is this man a passing ship?"

"No." That came out sharper than she intended.

Akilah smirked. "If he is a vital part of your life, then you can bring him this once. We do not bite, Nyota, and we wish to share in your happiness."

She had no logical argument that she could make.

Akilah looked smug. "Now, I made reservations at the _Bahangwa_ for dinner. Your father has secured us a box for _Eugene Onegin_ afterward. I trust that that will be a painless evening?"

She winced. "Yes, mama."

Akilah's gaze was frank. "You look troubled. Speak your mind."

She hesitated, wondering just how to voice her thoughts. "Mama, I wanted to apologize - for everything. The delay, the not speaking -"

Akilah interrupted her. "You had a burden, and you chose to bear it alone. It was not my place to know; it was yours to decided whose confidence you would take." Her tone was carefully blank, but it was a hurt that showed signs of healing. "I have been weak as well – ignoring the subject these last few months."

Her cheeks flushed at the subtle jab. She had not moved to make an introduction since then. as well, "Mama -" she tried again to fix her error.

"Do not worry for me," Akilah said, her voice lighter. "It is your Baba you must convince."

Something suspiciously like a cold sweat broke under the collar of her uniform.

Akilah chuckled. "In that, I believe that you may feel no guilt over past deeds. Atonement finds us in odd ways, no?"

Nyota simply nodded.

"Now," Akilah beamed. "I must let you go. But I will see you soon, Ababou." A warmth invaded her voice at the endearment, and Nyota found herself smiling, despite everything in her running bewildered and flustered.

"I will see you soon," and a small part of her thrilled over the knowledge. It really had been to long . . .

The screen before her went black, and she slumped back in her seat with an audible sigh. Dropping her head into her hands, she tried to close her eyes and beat away every worse case scenario with simply, rational, _logical_ thoughts.

Logical . . .

Stars! But she had to tell Spock!

She suddenly felt very, very tired.

Getting to her feet, she decided coffee was in order. And then . . . then she'd break the subject.

She didn't have to wait long for him - Spock got off shift an hour latter. By then the coffee had helped her nerve – if not her _nerves_ – and she was fairly fidgeting as Spock came in to start and go about all of his after shirt routines. When he had a cup of tea of his own and was moving to sit with the stack of PADDs he had brought with him, she decided to make her move.

"So, Majar III is coming up in our course in a few days," she started lightly.

"Indeed it is."

He was still looking down at the PADDs. At the back of her mind she could feel his curiosity, though – no doubt he could feel her unease, and was responding to it in kind.

"The Karria Opera House is one of the jewels of the circuit," she started. "And we have a shore leave coming up . . ."

Spock inclined his head. "Tchaikovsky's _Eugene Onegin_ is playing, is it not?"

"It is," she said. Maybe this would be easier than she thought . . .

"I was hoping to hit that on our visit," Spock continued.

"That's good," she said. Knowing that she had a window of opportunity to say what she wanted, her words were backed up on her tongue. Her hands were wringing together nervously, and her eyes were darting about everywhere but on him.

Spock noticed, and a moment later he looked over at her, raising a brow. "Please, whatever is causing you such trepidation – say it." She could feel his concern, and smiled lightly at it.

"My parents are on Majar III for Baba's work," she started carefully. Next to her Spock had gone very, very still. "My father has a box for the opera, and my mother was wondering if you'd like to do dinner – something light and easy. Painless," she tried to force a light humor into her voice as she used the same word her mother had earlier.

There was a very long second before Spock replied. She held her breath.

"It sounds like a preferable evening," he said simply.

She released the breath. "So, you don't mind?"

She could feel the more human panic in his mind belay his words. "Not at all – I look forward to making their acquaintance."

Fighting a smirk, she asked, "Are you sure?"

"Why would I not be?"

_Simple human nature_, she wanted to say. She stopped herself, though. "Alright then, it's a date."

"That it is," he agreed with her, his voice somewhat toneless.

She felt her own worry ease as she sought to ease his. "You'll love my parents," she said cheerfully. "My masa is one of the kindest people you'll ever meet. She's smart and beautiful and _amazing_ – so amazing." She felt a pang across their bond, and knew that Spock had thought of Amanda for a moment. She squeezed his hands once in sympathy, but did not comment on what he wouldn't want attention drawn to.

"And my baba was the reason I started into the Linguistic field," she said next, her voice warm as childhood memories started flooding back. "He was an interpreter for the High Council in Africa, and his duties took him to other planets when Council members would travel as delegates on behalf of Earth. He met my mother on Coruri, after they married, she accompanied him back to Earth, and had me and my older sister."

Kashore Uhura, her senior by three years, had also entered the Linguistic field, but on a more research oriented level. She still lived in Nairobi, with her husband and two children. Uhura kept a close contact with her – who had guessed as to her and Spock's involvement long before she had divulged the information. Kashore was quick and lively, her sharp wit and easy humor lending her well to the more lyrical and irrational strains of logic that linguistics often took.

"They sound like fascinating people," he said carefully.

"They are that," she gave, smiling ruefully when thinking of her father's more . . . scathing humor and her mother's stubbornness at times. She did adore them, though. Either way.

"And I am sure I will as well," Spock said in direct correlation to her thoughts.

"Then why do you sound so worried?" she returned, smiling teasingly.

"I am not worried. I am merely . . ." his voice tapered off as he searched for the proper word to explain his emotions.

"Nervous?" she supplied.

"Pensive," he gave.

"Ah," she raised a brow. "Well, while you are doing your best to _not_ worry – let me just tell you that it's natural. I'm nervous too . . . but the good kind." She found that that was true as she said it.

"The good kind?" he echoed.

"The best," she said.

He inclined his head, and she wrapped her arms around him. "Thank-you," she whispered in his ear. She could feel him bring one hand to rest over hers.

"You are welcome," he said softly.

Kissing him once, she got up to let him get back to work. If he was to move slower than usual through the pile of PADDs, then she was not one to say anything. He, she thought, was grateful for the blind eye. And the rest of their evening continued on.

The next morning, at the start of the Alpha shift, Kirk was aware of something wrong from the get go.

You see, in the nearly six months that Kirk had worked with Spock, he could count on one hand when the man was . . . anxious about something. Now – don't get him wrong - he was used to seeing the man in a crisis situation – the quick efficiency, and the brittle tension and quick logic all being put to use. That was different from whatever was on his first officer's mind right now.

By his meager and humble estimations, Spock had been staring at the same screen for the last five minutes. His eyes had moved back and forth over the same line, and Kirk would bet a bottle of McCoy's best that Spock's mind was not on his work.

Which was also an occurrence that he could count out on one hand.

This odd behavior continued until the end of the shift, upon which Spock fairly bounded out of his seat as the Alpha crew switched out for the Beta crew. He handed the conn away, and followed his first officer towards the turbolift, fully intrigued.

Spock looked over at him once, inclined his head, and then looked straight back ahead.

So, it was going to be the hard way, Kirk knew. Ah well, this was something else that time was also making him well suited for. "So, did you have a rough night last night?"

"Captain?" Spock gave after a moment's consideration.

"You just looked like it."

Spock's eyes narrowed as he considered that. When he understood the direction of his first comment, he said, "No, my night was fine."

"Something else bothering you?"

Silence.

"Anything you want to talk about?"

Kirk could almost see the thought flash across Spock's mind – _human_. Give or take some ire or annoyance. Kirk smiled, pleased with himself.

Spock hesitated a moment, and to Kirk's surprise, he asked, "I would like to request a shore leave for Majar III tomorrow."

"Sure," Kirk said, waving his hand. "I assume Uhura will be joining you – you've been talking about that ridiculous Karria Opera House for the last three weeks." He chuckled, amused with himself. He personally had his eye on the fine line of establishments just west of the artsy end of town – Laini Biu had the best Romulan Ale in the quadrant. He and McCoy were going to have a blast.

"Yes, that is on the evening's agenda," Spock said. His voice tapered off at the end, so Kirk waited, knowing that there was more. He prayed to whatever passing deity that was in the sector that he didn't have to hear about Tchiskuiov – or Takovsko, or whoever the blasted Russian composer was – the Nutcracker one. Tchaikovsky! That was it.

Spock let out a quick breath of air – his version of rolling his eyes. Kirk flushed bashfully. He had forgotten that the Vulcan could pick up on strong thoughts from those he was close to. Unfortunately, he was starting to fit into that category . . .

He was about to say something snarky and awesome to redeem himself when Spock spoke before he could. "Nyota's parents shall be meeting us."

The statement was clipped and sharp, but underneath Kirk could hear everything human and male loitering. He had to fight a smile behind his hand as he turned glittering eyes on his First Officer. "First time meeting the parents, I take it?"

Spock nodded stiffly.

Kirk did snort out a laugh that time – it simply couldn't be helped. "Wow . . . that explains this morning."

Spock cringed. "I shall endeavor to make up for my poor workmanship -"

" - really, you just had your 'once in a blue moon'. So relax."

The other man's posture relaxed, but just slightly.

Rolling his eyes in amusement, Kirk asked, "So really – man to man, how are you holding up?"

"Just fine."

Liar. Kirk looked over and could see a muscle in the other man's jaw jump. "Because, you know, it's okay if you're not – parents are as scary as hell. Especially fathers."

Spock raised a brow, "You have met many of the parents of the women of your acquaintance?"

Kirk waved a hand. "One or two," he gave. "And really – it was worse for me than it will be for you."

"How so?" Spock asked curiously.

"Well," Kirk gave, waving a hand vaguely, "I wasn't exactly . . . a catch. To go with my rugged good looks and knock-'em-dead charm I had a criminal record and a bad habit of picking up and leaving. I was not a hit with the parents. You . . . well, you're _you_. Really, you have nothing to worry about." He grinned his most winning smile.

Spock was oddly silent.

Kirk paused. "Did you give them any reason to dislike you?" he asked. It was the only thing he could think of to explain the other man's discomfort.

Spock hesitated.

Ah.

"What happened?" he asked as they exited the turbolift and headed for the mess hall. He was in full wise-and-zen mode now.

Spock was silent as they grabbed lunch and headed to their customary table in the corner. Kirk waited patiently, digging into his burger with relish as he eyed the other man's salad disdainfully.

"Her parents were not aware of our relationship for some time," Spock chose to start out with.

Kirk shrugged. "No one was," he pointed out. "For obvious reasons."

"They did not know for full a year."

Kirk winced. While he understood people around campus – and the senior officers in particular, family that far off and displaced . . . it was a tough call. "How did they handle it?"

"With silence," Spock said. "This is the first mentioning of it since the first."

Kirk did some quick math and easily saw the discrepancies. Ouch . . .

"Precisely," Spock agreed.

Kirk rolled his eyes, and took a big bite of his burger.

The Vulcan gave a surreptitious sigh – one Kirk was getting more and more used to seeing around him.

"So, lemme guess – mom's miffed, but prepared to like you. Dad probably hates your slimy guts – past the whole 'you're dating my youngest daughter' thing in the first place."

Spock inclined his head. "I believe you have accurately surmised the situation," he gave stiffly. Kirk fought the urge to smile at how tight his friend still was over guy talk.

"Of course," Kirk nodded wisely. "I see everything in these cases."

Spock raised a brow.

Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Kirk went on to say, "Okay, here's what you need to do," he paused to wipe ketchup from his chin – apparently the sage look he was trying to achieve had its drawbacks. "You need to get on mom's good side – if mom likes you, dad has to come around out of principle. Never forget who's the better half." He wagged a finger to emphasize his point . . . and then wiped said finger on his napkin when he noticed the mustard there. Stars, but what was he? Five?

Spock was looking at him in a way that suggested he was thinking the same.

Kirk scowled. "Now, get mom to like you – be sincere, be kind, be attentive. Try to be funny," he tried not to smile here, he really did. "And loose the stick."

"The stick? Captain?"

Kirk faltered. "Um . . . just relax. Loosen up. Show them the you you show Nyota."

Spock looked uneasy, but nodded either way.

"And for dad . . . be sincere. It's the biggest thing. Don't be fake – show them that you're someone who will share 'daddy's little girl' and not take her away."

Spock nodded, and the way his eyes were narrowing showed that he was carefully cataloging and process everything Kirk was saying. Kirk leaned back in his chair proudly. "Do as I say, and you'll be right as rain."

"Understood, Captain."

Kirk looked down at his messy fingers and raised a brow. "You know, you can call me Jim during guy-talk, Spock." Something told him that he would be trying to get that through his First Officer's head for a long time to come.

"Thank-you . . . Jim."

He nodded, pleased. "Don't mention it – oh, and have fun, Spock. Everything will go good – you'll see."

Spock nodded, but the motion wasn't as stiff this time. After saying farewell, the other man got up and left him to finish his lunch. Kirk watched him walk away with a smile on his face as he shook his head.

Really, he couldn't wait to hear all about this one . . .

**TBC**

* * *

And here is Mira's handy-dandy guide for Swahili terms. Any and all of my translations are taken from a google translator, so, if anyone who knows more of the language than I do notices my errors – feel free to point them out.

Habari - Hello (given)  
Sijambo - Hello (returned)  
Masa/Mama – Mother  
Baba – Father  
mwungwana - gentleman/man  
ababou – child who keeps coming back


	11. As You Love Our Pride and Joy pt II

**Part XI**: _"As You Love our Pride and Joy" pt. II _

Spock walked back from his lunch with the Captain feeling strangely unsettled instead of at ease.

Jim's words kept on filing through his thoughts . . . easy, sincere, funny, charming – _human_. He pursed his lips. Sincerity was easy. He found subterfuge hard in the first place, so technically anything truly deceitful was at times a stretch for him. But letting others know his true thoughts and feelings was something of a barrier at times – somewhat of an improbability for him at others. Nyota saw all of the facets he held within his silence, he knew. It was . . . natural to share them with her. And yet . . .

His thoughts were tripping around uncomfortably within the barriers of his mind. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that he was anxious, if not downright trepidatious about the meeting with her parents tomorrow. A very small part of him – human and hazy within his mind, was feeling the first of terror's abstract grip.

He took a deep breath, in through his nostrils and out through his mouth, trying to rally his thoughts within himself. This was most unbecoming, he knew.

When he entered the quarters that he shared with Nyota, she was sitting at the small table in the kitchenette, a stack of PADDs out before her and untouched. She was staring out the viewport towards the swirling wastes of silver stars around them, tapping her stylus idly against the tabletop. Her chin was propped up on her hand, and her large eyes were half-closed. At the back of his mind, he could feel her – immersed in fond memories and the peace that they brought to her.

Gently, he tapped into the strongest one, and felt a tangle of sensations and observations that were not his own.

_The memories were young – through a child's gaze. Unbidden, a smile threatened to pull at his lips at the thought of her at that age – with beaded braids swaying around her plump cheeks and small hands eagerly grasping at this and that. Carii II had been a vacation planet, and the hundreds of species there had awed the child who had never been beyond Earth's skies. The scents of incense and jungle spice on the air, and the imposing sight of pine green floating mountains in the distance was an euphoric experience for the child. But, even more beautiful than the sights was what she heard._

There were dozens of languages in the alien market. Languages that sang and clicked and whirled and snarled. They were a cadence to her ears, and with the eagerness that only a child could aptly capture, she insisted that her father – a strong man with laughing eyes – translate as many as he could for her.

Her mother and sister watched with small smiles as she was picked up and set upon her father's shoulders. As he explained to her the basics of the lilting language of the Bajorian trader that Akilah was bartering with, she clumsily tried her tongue over the words.

There was a leap in her thoughts with simple joy and amazement both combined. It was a simple feeling – pure as only children could feel; memories of family and safe mixing with the starts of what would come to be a lifelong study and passion.

He gently eased out of her thoughts as she whispered softly, "I think that I first started loving linguistics on that trip," she mused softly. "It was never a secret that my father wished for my sister and me to enter into his field, but it wasn't something I wanted until I heard all of those languages at once. It was beautiful," she whispered. "I wanted to understand everything . . . bridge everything; and it made my father so proud . . . He was really what pushed me here."

"It is a beautiful memory," he whispered, coming up behind her, and gently resting his hands on her shoulders..

She smiled up at him. "It's one of my favorites," she said softly.

There was silence between them after that, but it was of a soft sort.

. . . she was happy in that moment, he knew. Her family made her happy. That was something that he could not dodge or refuse her; and so, for her, he would make this work. She had been there for him through so many things – this was the least that he could do for her in return.

.

.

The next day found them in orbit over Majar III.

Majar III was a gleaming green world that glowed against the nets of golden nebulae that rested right beyond it. It was dawn in the capitol when they took the shuttle down to the surface, and the hard yellow and pink light painted the silver city in rich pastel tones that drew the eye and quickened the breath to view.

Majar's industrial sector was what one might see on many other worlds – as was the diplomatic sector; with large convention halls and buildings reaching for the far above sky. Its trading sectors were similar as well – giant trading halls and open air markets with everything imaginable. But still, the most breathtaking part of the capitol was the sector boasting of its arts. In order to appease the wide alien traffic the galleries catered to dozens of styles, and the Karria Opera House preformed works in dozens of tongues.

The morning hours were spent in conferences with the Majarian leaders and the Intergalactic delegates that were there as well. By the mind afternoon they were free of their duties, and took to walking about the city for the few hours they needed to kill before joining with Akilah and Moumbwa, seeing as how his work would detain him until the end of the work day.

The delegate's apartments were located on the edge of the diplomatic sector, right where the sector of the arts began. The sun was just starting it's long decent into night (Majar was famous for its nearly four hour sunsets) when they reached the building, and on the air, the evening birds started their chorus of cries.

At his side, Nyota was fairly bouncing as she walked as quickly as she could in the evening gown she wore. He followed her at a more sedate pace, tugging on his suit for the umpteenth time to make sure that it was free of wrinkles -which, of course, it was.

He was not nervous, by any means . . . He was simply caught in the thralls of anticipation, that was it.

A small part of him – human and mostly ignored whispered that if he told himself that enough that he just may start believing it. He leveled a mental glare at the internal voice, irked over the disarray of his thoughts.

At his side, Nyota took no note of the turmoil that his thoughts were in; which he was thankful for. Instead, her dark eyes were trained on the tall and striking couple that were walking towards them.

He stood just a little straighter, and surreptitiously took in a deep breath.

He immediately felt more at peace looking at the elder woman of the pair. She bore such a strong resemblance to Nyota that it was impossible for him to not breathe a little bit more easily in her presence. A darker set to her skin, and a more narrow tilt to her eyes were about the only differences she had from her daughter; aside from the slight weight and grace that age and motherhood granted her with.

And at the woman's side there was a tall man with a clean shaven head and the same caramel and coffee complexion that Nyota had. His eyes were wider set and deeper than Nyota's, his mouth full and smiling, but there was something about the way he carried himself that spoke clearly of the connection he bore with his daughter. He was clothed to match his wife, wearing striking green and earthen tones in patterns of a more traditional nature in a more modern cut.

Right now, the determination and confidence that his whole manner spoke of was concentrated on him. Spock tilted his head to the side as he felt the emotions in the air – pleasure of a family reunited. Apprehension – both Nyota's and his. Curiosity, which was explainable. And yet, under the curiosity there was a faint line of annoyance, a pain that was personifying itself as an anger ready to spark at the wrong signs. These, he believed, came from her father.

That, he remarked in the confines of his mind, could be a trait that Nyota had inherited well.

At his side, Nyota rolled her eyes at picking up _that_ particular thought from him, and her humor at the back of his bond with her helped bolster his confidence.

She took a smooth step forward and enveloped both of her parents in one hug. She greeted them in rapid Swahili, her voice lilting over the cadence of the language, her accent picking up as if she had never been away from home. He watched her interact with her parents with a raised brow, taking in the ease of their exchange . . . of touch and laughter and smiles.

Something inside of him, deep and hidden, threatened to rise. Resolutely, he pushed it away. This evening was not about him.

She naturally had picked up on that fleeting emotion and glanced at him with a heated look of ardent and profound empathy for all that thought, even as she finally detached herself, her smile still remained, blooming and perfect on her face. It was that that he concentrated on, and nothing else.

"Mother, Father," she spoke in Standard once more, "this is Spock, my mwungwana."

Spock raised a brow at the description, but said nothing.

"Spock, this is Akilah Uhura, my mother," the woman inclined her head, but didn't offer her hand – no doubt years of inter-species interaction at work. "And this is Moumbwa Uhura, my father."

The man's eyes, which had just been warm as he gazed upon his daughter darkened slightly along the corners. Steeling himself, Spock stepped forward and offered his hand to the older man. "It is a pleasure to meet you," he said, trying to inflict a warmth into the words alongside the sincerity he felt. He wasn't sure whether or not he succeeded.

Moumbwa paused just a moment before taking his proffered hand. Spock concentrated on the strength of the grip, and the message conveyed there, rather than lingering on the traces of thought that he could pick up through the skin to skin contact.

Annoyance . . . curiosity . . .interest.

The other man was waiting to judge, he realized.

He felt as if a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

Silence fell as Nyota looked back and forth from her parents to him, no doubt unsure just how to proceed. She fidgeted just slightly, her fingers tugging on the edges of the opera gloves she wore from where she had her hands clasped behind her back.

It was Akilah who finally spoke up, speaking to her daughter in their own tongue. "Ninyi hakumwambia yangu alikuwa mzuri," there was a smile in her voice. A moment later he could feel appraising eyes rake up and down his form.

_You did not tell me he was handsome_, his mind translated without his permission.

On cue, Nyota flushed, even as Moumbwa scowled.

"I hakufikiri ilikuwa muhimu, masa," she said to her mother, her tone chiding. _I did not think it important_, she said. And then she added when the smirk on Akilah's face grew, "Yeye anaelewa Kiswahili mama yake, na kusikia ni bora kuliko mtu yeyote najua." _He understands Swahilli, mother, and his hearing is better than anyone I know._

Moumbwa let out a low, rumbling laugh at that. "Apparently, my dear, that is payment for you speaking of another man's appearance before me."

Akilah turned smiling eyes on her husband. "Hush, love. He holds nothing in comparison to you."

Nyota stifled a laugh at the exchange between them and said aside to her mother, "Yes," she drawled teasingly, "you have proven your fine tastes – so at least I come by my own honestly.

He could feel the tips of his ears flush green as Akilah laughed. The sound was full and beautiful; it was Nyota's in its entirely.

"Yes, now that the most important aspect of the evening is concluded," Moumbwa drawled, the humor in his eyes at war with the severity of his tone, "neither one of you just spent six hours translating the Jakiian language into Majarin and back. Please, the thought of dining is a pleasing one."

Akilah rolled her eyes before twining her arm through her husbands, "Yes, you are rather grumpy without your dinner."

"It was the _ambassador_ whom contributed to my mood – not a lack of nourishment."

"Of course, dear," Akilah patted his arm affectionately.

"Condescending wench," Moumbwa muttered under his breath.

"Grumbling ogre," Akilah cooed, loud enough for Spock and Nyota to hear.

Nyota choked on her laughter, finally unable to contain her giggles behind her hand. She came up to touch both of her parents fondly. "I have missed the two of you, I hope you realize that?"

Moumbwa grumbled good-naturedly, even as Akilah held her head up. "Yes, yes, my daughter – we do give so much to miss."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Nyota promised, and together the four of them started walking.

.

Dinner was a surprisingly relaxed and uneventful affair.

The elder Uhuras had yet to see their youngest daughter in over a year; and anecdotes and inquiries were principally passed amongst the family. He was thoughtfully included, but for the most part, questions were not put his way.

He was aware of Moumbwa's eyes on him the whole time – watching him. Watching the way he passed Nyota her glass of wine, and the way he reacted when she would touch his hand every time her speech grew particularly passionate. He knew that neither parent was blind to the moments where Nyota would pause to mentally pass something along to him through their bond, and was almost grateful for the lack of questions as to the mental connection. Nyota must have filled her mother in prior.

More often than not, Nyota managed to draw him into conversation when her stories turned to Jim's antics aboard the _Enterprise _and their missions of the year they had to date. Akilah had been a science major before marrying, and she held a developed interest in astrophysics and xenobontany both. He found it easy to converse with her. She had a wicked sense of humor to go along with her keen intellect – at times, he found himself falling into the same rhythm that he did with Doctor McCoy, or even Jim, when their predisposition for banter would come to the forefront.

There were many times in the evening where Nyota would look his way proudly. He tried not to return the glances too obviously; but when seeing the harsh lines about her fathers face soften when he did so, he wondered why he tried so hard.

Somewhere halfway through the dinner, Moumbwa must have seen something in his behavior with Nyota that pleased him, for he he addressed him directly for the first, "You are the son of the Vulcan ambassador, are you not?"

"I am," Spock answered.

Moumbwa inclined his head. "I thought so – you look a lot like him, you know? He's a guy that stands out in a crowd."

Akilah was rubbing her chin thoughtfully, her dark eyes thoughtful, "I am not sure – I see much of the Lady Amanda in him. It is the eyes, I believe."

He grasped his hands together somewhat more tightly at being appraised so openly, but gave no other sign as to his discomfort. If anyone had the right to remark so, it would be them.

Nyota was hiding her smile behind her napkin. That may have helped, just a little.

"I thank-you for your comments," he said levelly.

"Oh yes," Akilah drawled upon hearing the formal tone, "he is very much Sarek's son."

No one had ever quite remarked upon his similarities to his father – unless it was Amanda herself, commenting on their shared pride and stubbornness.

A prickly sort of feeling – like grief washed over and numbed – rose up in him before he let it go on an exhale.

"She was a good woman," Akilah said seriously. "She is sorely missed."

Moumbwa nodded his agreement. He inclined his head to their sympathies, but found that he could say nothing to them. Thankfully, they understood – at times, while there was much that perplexed him about humanity, there was much that he appreciated as well.

Lightening the mood, Akilah was quick to go into some of her lighter times spent with Amanda during their diplomatic meetings. To this, Spock listened with interest. He had not realized that they were in any way acquainted, and he found her lighter stories of Amanda and Sarek further soothing the grief that he still felt inside.

Although, he would have to ask his father about the time where he confused the Cardosian floral arrangements with a salad. Indeed, any such lapse in his father's logic was . . . strangely enjoyable to him. Amanda's more human sense of humor putting the situation to rights had further placed the story in an honored place in his mind.

When the diplomatic stories dwindled down, the dinner was almost complete. The server was clearing away their plates when Moumbwa turned to him and asked if he had an interest in opera.

"I do enjoy it on occasion," he responded.

Nyota snorted delicately next to him, "What he means to say is that his interest in it rivals even yours, Babou."

Moumbwa's eyes lightened with that. "Well, that is in your favor, to be sure."

Nyota grinned over at Spock. "Father plays the violin better than anyone I know, and has been to every opera house from La Scala to the Metropolitan Opera house to the Palais Garnier on Earth. He's making his way through the intergalactic ones now."

"I personally preferred the Opèra Bastille to the Garnier in the terms of sound quality, but the Garnier has the l'belle epoque grandeur that cannot be beat," Moumbwa agreed.

"We saw _Faust_ at the Garnier, and _Cosi fan Tutte_ at the Bastille at our last shore leave in Paris," Nyota added.

"And which did you prefer?"

"The Garnier," Akilah guessed. "It's the romantic in her."

Nyota flushed, but said nothing.

"And on your travels, what has stood out to you so far?" Moumbwa asked.

"The Betazoid empathetic arrangements were particularly stunning," Nyota answered. "You could _feel_ the emotions with the stories; not only hear them. We stopped at Atraxiz on out way back from the capitol for official business, and we saw Kuisuxia Joi preform in the Third Emphatic Movement."

"If you were in that corner of the galaxy, have you by any chance heard the Choral of the Wind on Maxius Prime?" Moumbwa asked.

Nyota shook her head, even as Spock nodded his. "I had the privilege of seeing it with my parents, years prior."

"And you enjoyed it?"

He paused, remembering the thousands of glass chutes catching the wind, and the alien humming that sound like both rain and surf combined. He had stood in awe at the time, his hand in Amanda's as he had observed the spectacle. The memory was a cherished one to him.

"I found it pleasing." he asked. "The structure of the composition was particularly fascinating. While the performance itself gave off the impression of spontaneity and freedom, the mathematical theories behind the performance were actually rather rigorously adhered to. It was a seamless blend of structure and flow."

"Ah, yes, you would find that interesting," Moumbwa remarked. "I had the pleasure of seeing the Vulcan lyricist T'Pilou many years before. Her performance was very structured, very severe for all of the passion that she was able to produce in her song. It was a fascinating conundrum," his voice lingered over the syllables when he said fascinating, popping them on his tongue.

"Spock plays the Vulcan lyre," Nyota commented, "and rather beautifully as well."

"I would like to hear that sometimes," Moumbwa said, and when he did there was a sincerity to his voice.

"It would be my honor," Spock replied, and he found himself truly meaning it.

Music was a safe subject, and Spock found himself agreeing with Moumbwa's opinions and theories more often than not. When it came to the opera at hand, both men were pleased to hear the debut tour of Amishia Karindos in the roll of Tatyana. The pretty soprano from the Hapos rings had one of the best voices to grace the Karrina circuit in decades. Her flawless singing of the character – in the difficult but traditional Russian verse, and the more localized Majarian tongue was something to be marveled at.

By the time they were exiting the restaurant and heading to the theater, Spock was not only enjoying the evening, but looking forward to the continuation of it.

The theater was in walking distance, and as Nyota and Akilah paired off ahead of them, Spock fell back with Moumbwa. The woman were talking about this and that, and he had heard enough to know that Akilah was finally asking for the details on how _did you meet?_ and _when did you know?_ from her daughter. Nyota answered each question with a smile, and where Moumbwa may have been interested with the conversation to begin with, his interest quickly tapered off when he realized that Akilah was also sharing her own courtship stories with her daughter.

Spock was eager to loiter back with Moumbwa and talk of anything else. Their conversation remained light – to understand the depths of a language was to first understand its parameters. Nyota had told him that many times, and it was a saying no doubt gleaned from her father. He could feel himself being sketched in the elder linguist's mind even now.

He hoped that the resulting picture was not too unflattering.

They reached the Karria Opera House after only minutes of walking. The building was a striking architectural gem, made entirely of green glass and flowing gold designs. Everywhere, artistic representations of Majarian musical spirits flowed through the golden patterns as the sound of tinkling water rushed through the glass tiles under their feet, giving the illusions of walking on a sea of glass and light. The ceilings were painted with large murals, denoting plots from a dozen tales, and artificial candles floated in the air all the way up to the fifth story of the domed ceiling.

It was one of the most impressive foyers to a theater he had seen in his travels to date.

The auditorium was just as stunning. Red velvet lined the seats, and the crimson color was striking against the green glass and the gold sculptures. The floor seats sparkled with hundreds of immaculately dressed guests, while the balconies hummed with the murmurs of the crowds. Alongside the balconies, bubble like formations floated – the boxes for the well to do who wanted a truly breathtaking view of the plot playing out below. The most gaudy of the formations loitered to the extreme right and left of the stage – for those who were more interested in _being_ seen than _seeing_ the plot unfurling below.

Moumbwa led them up about halfway through the tiers, before telling them that he had procured them a floating box for the evening. "A gift from the Majarrian ambassador," he said. "Apparently, one is to spoil one's 'flock' or risk loosing their affections elsewhere." He chuckled at the end of the statement, his eyes resting significantly on Spock.

Nyota grinned up at Spock as she squeezed his hand once in her excitement. The smile made her breathtaking for a moment, and without his permission, his eyes fell over the black dress she wore and the gloves that lingered up past her elbows. Small glowing stones dotted her perfectly coiffed hair and her dress, giving the impression of constellations upon the inky violet of space.

He could feel her joy in the back of his mind, and he paused for a step as he allowed it to flow up and through him.

Akilah smiled at them both before shaking her head discreetly at her husband. "Well, one cannot be faulted for tine taste," she muttered.

Spock felt the tips of his ears flush green as he realized that his frank appraisal of Nyota had been noticed, but there was a small smile threatening to break onto his face as he led Nyota into the floating box. Nyota immediately claimed the seat between him and Akilah, and Moumbwa took the seat at his wife's side.

Strangely at peace within the small family unit, he let himself relax. Soon, the music began, and he was transported to another place entirely.

Amishia Karindos did Tatyana's role to perfection, going back and forth from girlish innocence at first love to unsure despair within the letter scenes by turns. Her tears were real when Onegin told her that he was a man for the moment and not for marriage at the end of act one, and her despair was tangible as he flirted shamelessly with her sister in act two. The anger and regret between Vladimir and Onegin before the duel and after was particularly well acted, and he felt Nyota's sorrow as Vladimir died in the act's end.

When, in act three, an older and more mature Tatyana appeared with her husband, the Prince Gremin, Nyota sucked in a satisfied chuckle upon seeing Onegin's anguished reaction. She always did get a vindication from seeing Tatyana – decked in jewels and royal purple - shown before a man who had turned her pure love away years before.

And yet, as always, she recovered enough to be close to tears by the final scenes.

For him, while he enjoyed the masterpiece for its flawless transition of Russian poetry to libretto and the fine mathematics of the orchestration, really cared little for the somewhat emotionally extravagant plot. Even so, he felt for the couple as Onegin explained the misery he felt in the ten years that he spent without her. He explained that his love was real – no mere attraction brought on by her station. Amashia's voice soared as she turned Onegin away, vowing to be faithful to a loveless marriage with her husband, even while languishing as she confessed that her heart would always be his.

By the time Onegin's voice soared on his final, disparaging notes, the audience was on its feet clapping. At his side, Nyota blinked back tears while he got a distinct _'don't say a word'_ in his mind from hers.

Moumbwa chuckled when he looked over to see his daughter and wife wearing the exact same expressions.

"I take it you found the performance moving, then?" he questioned.

Nyota gave a watery smile. "Always," she whispered.

Spock shook his head, but didn't ask. He had long since learned to hold his silence when Nyota became emotional at the end of any sort of performance. Instead, he reached out, and gently pressed his hand against hers before drawing away. She felt his wave of support, and smiled up at him for it. "Thanks," she breathed.

He inclined his head.

They loitered as the auditorium emptied out, and even took the time to see Amishia Karindos and her baritone counterpart after the performance. The budding prima donna was smiling grandly at her admirers, and her wide eyed pleasure at the praise was she received showed that she treasured every last word. Briefly, Spock wondered if she would be the same the next time he had the pleasure of hearing her. He hoped so.

By the time they exited the theater, night had fully fallen on Majar. The edges of the horizon were still stained a rich tumble of violet and red, a telling sign that they had just missed the end of the sunset. All around them, floating streetlights lit up the boulevards with tones of green and gold, lighting up the budding nightlife. Above, the stars started to twinkle merrily. This close to the core, the stars were thick and close together, giving off almost as much light as Majar's moons.

As they walked down the street, he found himself once again walking with Moumbwa. It was not as surprising as he would have found it in the beginning of the evening.

They walked in silence for the most part, content to say nothing as they listened as Nyota and Akilah chattered rapidly ahead of them in their home tongue.

Finally, when they were only a few moments away from the diplomat's apartments, Moumbwa spoke. "You care for my daughter," Moumbwa said, his voice lilting and thoughtful as he voiced what Spock had been wondering to the entire evening through. "This is obvious – for everything you do not show, even – and because of this I held my judgment from the start of this evening."

"Sir," Spock said, feeling the inexplicable urge to defend the hows and whys of their relationship coming to life. "Please, allow me to -"

Moumbwa cut him off. "You had a duty, and you adhered to it, even as you walked the gray areas within it." His eyes softened. "I can understand, having my heart taken so swiftly by her mother. It is a credit to your taste and sense," at this his gaze fell on his wife, and a soft sort of smile invaded his eyes.

It took Spock a moment to realize that that same look had been one he had worn on his face the entire evening through.

Moumbwa smiled as the realization lit his eyes. "Yes, yes; I do think that you'll make my daughter a very happy woman." This time, when he held his hand out, Spock showed no hesitance in accepting the contact. It was easy for the other man's approval and joy to seep through his thoughts,

"Well then," Moumbwa said gruffly as he pulled his hand away. He took a few steps up so that he was side by side with his wife, and the easy way he looped his arm around her made something inside of him rise with a contentedness that he had not realized that he had sought until then.

When they were ready to part, Akilah wasted to time abiding the "mother, please" she got from her daughter, and wrapped her arms briefly around Spock's neck in a hug. He stiffened in the embrace, but let it continue as he saw the bemused grin on Nyota's face.

Before she pulled away she whispered lightly in his ear, "Kuendelea kuwa nzuri kwa ajili yake, mwanangu."

_Continue being good for her . . . my son._

A tight sort of feeling settled, low in his throat as he whispered, "_I wake watamwabudu."_

I shall cherish her.

Akilah nodded her approval as she walked back over to her husband. Moumbwa simply settled for lifting his hand in the traditional Vulcan salute as a farewell. Spock returned it, and then he and Nyota departed, her arms linked through his as she rested her head on his shoulder.

.

They walked slowly back to their the suite that they had booked for the evening. Outside the Majarian sky was heavy with stars, and their room glowed with an natural light before Nyota commanded the computers to softly illuminate the room. At her further command, music filled the chamber, low and soothing around them. He felt a wave of affection fill him as he recognized the playlist – an assembling of jazz and classical pieces that she had pushed him to try back at the academy.

He looked over to where she had paused by the vanity mirror. Deftly, she flicked the pins from her hair, and let the now curling masses flutter free about her shoulders. The sparkling stones within the tresses glittered as they fell to the floor. Her delicate fingers plucked the opera gloves from one arm, and then the next, and he watched her natural grace with unblinking eyes.

She was speaking to him, unaware of his distraction. "I wanted to thank-you for everything you did this evening," she was saying sincerely. "My father is not an easy one to win over at times - and he is an astute judge of character. And my mother; well . . . she's sweet, but if you get on her bad side, watch it!" her eyes twinkled as she laughed lightly.

She reached up to undo the zip of her evening gown, and after fumbling with it awkwardly for a moment she walked over to him, an absentminded pout on her lips. Without asking, she lifted her hair up in a silent question.

"And just what did you say to my mother?" she inquired as he unzipped her. "She was grinning ear to ear – and if I didn't know her any better, I'd say she was close to tears. She had on her end-of-an-Jane-Austen-novel face."

"Did she?" he inquired. He hadn't noticed.

"Yes, she did," Nyota confirmed.

He said nothing, but instead followed her as she entered the large bathroom that was adjacent to their chambers. Nyota had requested a spa styled tub on a whim earlier, and he hadn't been one to deny her.

She set the water on before tossing in a small globe that bloomed into a layer of frothy bubbles over the surface of the water. She still continued to talk, unaware of his eyes burning on her.

"So, what did you say?" she asked.

He fought the very human urge to shrug. "It was of little consequence," he teased.

She raised a brow at him before stepping over to him. She smelled of the lavender from the bubbles.

"You and your family are very close," he whispered. "It was . . . enchanting to see you interact. In your mother I see your humor and determination; in your father your strength and . . ."

That same brow raised higher, daring him.

"Willfulness," he hedged carefully.

Her eyes twinkled merrily.

"I must admit that the prospect of meeting your father was quite daunting at first," he said.

"Daunting?" her eyes were still sparkling.

"Terrifying," he admitted.

She cocked her head as she looked at him fondly. Her long arms wrapped around him lazily, her whole body forming a sensuous drape over his own. "Why, such a strong emotion? That doesn't sound logical at all."

"On the contrary, it is perfectly so with the circumstances in question."

Nyota laughed merrily as she pulled teasingly away from him, her fingers tracing gentle little patterns up and down his arm. "If you think that my father was the real challenge, then wait until you meet my sister."

He raised a brow as she turned to walk back over to the bath. She dipped her fingers elegantly into the water, testing it. When she drew her hand away it was covered in foam. "I will admit, that it does not sound that threatening."

He caught a glimpse of memory from her – a memory of a sarcastic young woman with a smile that never seemed to completely quit . . . The memories elaborated, and then morphed to show practical jokes gone wrong, and a sister's ire when facing Nyota's first suitors back in Nairobi.

He took a deep breath upon realizing what the woman reminded him of. She reminded him of Kirk . . . Kirk with McCoy's sarcasm . . .

"Indeed," he breathed a moment later, "I do believe that that is an introduction that can wait."

"Indeed?" Nyota said, raising a teasing brow. Her smile took on the same twitch that it did right before she laughed . . .

The combination of her humor and her contentedness and her adoration . . . it was potent. He leaned over and took her smile as his own as he kissed her. Nyota sighed deeply, as she turned into him.

"So, what did you say to my mother?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes taking on that glow that they had for him, only for him . . .

"I told her," he said between kisses, "that I would continue to cherish you."

Nyota smiled at him, and drew him back by the lapels of his suit until he could feel the steam from the bath and the heat from her skin. The scent of lavender and jasmine and her invaded her nose until he was nearly drunk on the sensation.

Tenderly, gently, she reached up to kiss him, and the thoughts of family – and anything outside the two of them – flickered away into nothingness.


	12. Remember then, With Fondness Over Grief

**XII._"Remember then, With Fondness Over Grief"_**

The one year mark of their time aboard the _Enterprise_ was superseded by another, more somber anniversary.

The anniversary of the fall of the planet Vulcan. A year since the galaxy had started to equate the name of _Enterprise_ with that of heroes; days saved and stars won. A year since she had watched Spock suffer through the loss of his mother, his people; a tangible pain so great that she still felt it as her own in the back of her mind. A year since she received a position on the Senior crew (Kirk was not the only one to break records amongst the youngest officers in history) . . . A year since Kirk won her respect, and so much more . . . A year since she embarked on her life long dream.

The stars were everything she would think them to be, and more, but today . . . Today was a day when all that one looked back on was what one had lost.

The days before had built up to this day in a lethargic fashion. Instead of being allowed to observe the first anniversary of the 'Hole in the Stars', as the HoloNet had come to call it, in relative peace, the _Enterprise_ was to be the guest of honor in the new monument that had been built in the empty space where Vulcan used to be.

Already, she had been to many of these ceremonies. Too many. She had seen the unveiling of the monument on the Academy grounds that honored the fallen cadets; had listened to the speeches of those dignitaries gathered, while she found her classmate's names on the engraved marble. She had been by Spock's side when he had visited the unveiling of the monument in the capitol for the fall of Vulcan and all those she held. Similar homages popped up all over the galaxy, that she had not attended.

Spock had declined going to the unveiling of the monument on New Vulcan that honored those in Starfleet who had fallen by Nero's hand while trying to aide the planet below. Spock Prime had filled his younger counterpart in on the events he had missed in a weathered tone. Even after years of service and seeing friends pass on, he had still been burdened by the senseless loss of the young of Starfleet, as well as his own people.

Sarek had convinced Spock to come to the unveiling of the rebuilt Katric Ark, just a month prior. Nyota hadn't attended out of scheduling difficulties, and Spock had spoken little to her of the experience. He had been more solemn than was his norm ever since then.

And yet, those were token signs of remembrance. This was different . . . this was big.

When Admiral Kyat, a spacial architect before becoming an officer, had proposed the idea to Starfleet Command, they had then taken the idea up with a council of Ambassadors from the worlds that would be necessary for assisting in the building. Ten months later, the memorial was built.

In the blank space that used to house Vulcan, a giant metal contraption had been erected. The material shone gold in the lights that bathed it; the metal beams turning and crisscrossing elegantly in a simple curving design. Together, the beams formed a giant sphere that outlined the exact shape and placement of Vulcan. Inside the empty space a revolving repolsor glowed white like a small star, keeping the whole structure upright and spinning in a mimicking of the planet's actual path. Over the giant golden beams, names were inscribed in the Vulcan language – every person who had perished with the planet; and every officer who had perished in defense of her. Inside of the 'core', three metal boxes rotated, these containing valuable items rescued from Vulcan before its destruction – priceless things that would be there for future generations to see and cherish.

The size was mammoth – the brainchild of some of the best building minds in the galaxy, and the first of its kind. Even Nyota had stared in awe at it when she had seen the plans and puzzled over the sheer amount of work that had to go into something that's sole purpose was preserving a memory.

The whole thing was nostalgic . . . very human, very grand, very opulent. And while every Vulcan gathered there looked on with carefully blank faces, the feeling of healing over sorrows clung to the air like mist.

When she had asked Spock as to his people's reactions he had simply said that it was logical to let other species show their grief over what had happened. It was an honor for a proud race who was very much now forced to rely on the aide of other planets. And, while no one there would admit it . . . the act of remembrance itself was something cherished, if only within the confines of their minds.

Now, the Day of Remembrance was upon them.

Orbiting the memorial was an observation post. The post was elegant in tones and silver and gold, with pastel shimmering where gel like observation stations were. In the core of the post was a small museum and guided tour on Vulcan history; outlining their gifts to the galaxy and their planet's fall. Here, high Vulcan members and select guests from a hundred different planets gathered to commemorate the memorial's opening.

The post offered a tangible way to let views show their respects; a more personal way that was so human in nature that she had to raise her brow at it. Along the walls were small glass spheres which each held an everburning candle in it. Each sphere had a small guidance system built in to it that would cause it to orbit the repulsor. Together, each cast candle would form a glowing core at the planet that would shine on for years to come. The gel walls were really a membrane that allowed one to press their candle out to be claimed by the space beyond. The whole setup was ingenuous.

For playing such a role in Nero's defeat, the Senior crew of the _Enterprise_ would be of the first to present and light their candles.

She wasn't exactly sure how she felt about that, yet, if she was completely honest with herself. While she appreciated the lengths that were gone to to give the Vulcan people a tangible place to mourn at, she wasn't so sure about paying her own respects in front of a few hundred people and a few billion more that would be watching due to the HoloNews representatives that would surely be there.

This should have been something small, something private to let such a highly private race grieve.

At that point, she was fighting to keep her hands still as she buttoned up her dress uniform. For this, she had opted against the skirt, and wore a severe red jacket that proudly displayed her rank over a perfectly pressed pair of pants. Her dress boots shone, and the smart creak of leather was music to her ears. The white gloves that went with the ensemble clearly showed any smudge, so she was trying to wait for the last moment to don them.

She was twisting her hair up in an elegant bun while next to her Spock was polishing his rank insignia. She tried to watch him discreetly out of the corner of her eye, looking for the small, telltale indicators of his mood. His face was perfectly blank; his presence at the back of her mind carefully serene and calm.

He could not have been feeling only that. All day he had been silent, his whole manner pensive. The morning through he had spent with Sarek, who was one of the speaking dignitaries; and the few hours she had spent with him had been spent without words passed between them. She knew that he had to be more conflicted than he showed. When she had entered from her shift earlier, she had found him sitting cross legged on the floor, a box of possessions out before him, and something that looked suspiciously like a jewelry box in his hand that he was staring pensively at. He had said it was nothing, and shielded it from her view, but she knew that if he was getting nostalgic then he was more effected by the proceedings than he let onto.

"You don't have to shield from me," she whispered softly, knowing that he would know what she was talking about without having to elaborate. "I want to know how you are feeling . . . I want to help."

He rolled his shoulders elegantly. "There is nothing to share," he murmured softly, his eyes staring straight ahead.

She looked at him, letting her gaze linger and become painfully obvious.

Finally, he returned her gaze, and she was offered a hesitant assurance from his mind. It wasn't enough, but she was out of time to question it as the intercom announced them pulling into Vulcan space. Spock noticeably stiffened, his whole matter straight and severe.

He said nothing to her inquiries as they boarded the shuttle with a noticeably sympathetic Kirk (who, at one point, had patted his first officer on the back in an awkward attempt at comfort.), and a grumbling McCoy who was pulling irritably at his tight collar. Even while his manner was gruff, his eyes had settled sympathetically on Spock, who was doing his best to stare straight ahead and ignore the emotion that was cloaking the air like smoke. Off to the side, Chekov, Sulu, and Scotty kept up a light chatter to try to lighten the weighty mood.

Chekov was wide eyed as he purposefully prattled on about the mechanics of the Sphere, trying to get Spock to unleash one of his notorious lectures. At her side, Spock remained silent.

When their shuttle landed there was a telltale flash of yellow from the bulbs outside of the landing pad. She observed them with a grimace, wondering why they couldn't just leave well enough alone.

Immediately they were accosted by questions and flashing cameras. There was a clamor of energy from reporters from a dozen different species, and she had to fight to stay one step ahead of them. Ahead, Kirk had cozied up to a leggy blonde woman, and she rolled her eyes until she realized that Kirk was shooing them all on relatively clear of the vultures as he spun them in circles.

It would have been easier if she didn't stick to Spock's side, no doubt. As the half-Vulcan member of the celebrated crew, he was zeroed in on like blood in the water. His terse 'no comments' turned into neutral statements that let him eventually bow out gracefully.

She could feel his ire and annoyance at the back of her mind, and it was one of the strongest things she had felt from him in days.

She bit her tongue to keep herself from asking him how he was holding up, but it was a hard thing to do. Instead she brushed her first two fingers against his, and passed as much of her love and support to him that she could. He would briefly press back before drawing into himself again, his whole manner outwardly Vulcan even as everything human in him simmered tempestuously.

They were welcomed by Admiral Kyat and T'Pau of the Vulcan high council. T'Pau cast a cold glance over her and Spock before pointing out Sarek in the sea of dignitaries. Spock nodded his thanks, and spent the remaining time before the ceremonies greeting those he recognized and meeting those he didn't. He was every inch a diplomat's son in that moment, and from the way Sarek regarded him, she wondered if most of his grace and poise was purely Amanda's doing.

If she wasn't connected with him as she was, she would think him to be perfectly fine, his whole manner perfectly poised and collected.

Through the speeches that honored the memorial she stood sandwiched between Scotty and Chekov as Kirk and Spock took up closer positions to the podium. McCoy stood on the end of their line, after Sulu, and she wondered if the placement was purely for color coordination's sake only.

The speeches went on for seemingly ever. The head of Starfleet, Admiral Kyat, and several Vulcan dignitaries spoke. All recycled the same words about steps forward and futures incoming as those behind were remembered in the best way modern minds could imagine. She found herself just caring about the ceremonies end as she kept a close eye on Spock the whole way through, and wished that their bond was more open so she would be able to ascertain if his stiffness was anything more than a military pose.

She bit her lip as Kirk took the podium, wincing as she imagined his speech compared to the last speaker – an Ambassador Mior who was quite an elegant orator. Surprisingly, her Captain surprised her once again when he spoke with short and simple sentenced that were full of feeling as he went on about the race's stubbornness in rebuilding – voicing what he had seen on the _Enterprise_ right after the attack, what he had seen on New Vulcan, and what he had seen with one of Vulcan's very own working at his side for the last year.

When Kirk spoke, she felt Spock's pride through their bond, and she fought to keep from smiling at it. Kirk had made more than one close friend amongst his crew, that she knew.

Kirk's honest and simple words won a hearty round of applause (and whistles from a few of the younger ladies). When he walked back to take his place next to Spock, Spock bowed his head in acknowledgment, while Kirk wore that grin that said that his friend would not have escaped a more human display of affection had they been anywhere else. She could feel Spock's relief clearly.

After the last speaker concluded, Admiral Kyat came out to demonstrate how the honorary system worked. He lit his own candle, while at his side the Senior crew lit theirs in mirror movements. Her fingers were tight against the small glass orb, and the gasses inside that would keep the orb permanently lit responded in dancing colors of violet and emerald against the surface. When she lit the spark, it flared into glorious color, and she stared for it for a moment; entranced.

At her side, Chekov fumbled with lighting his in front of the cameras, his face flushing pink as he mumbled a curse in his native tongue under his breath. She distracted herself by leaning over to assist the young genius who found trouble with most things outside the realm of astrophysics. He mumbled a thanks in his own tongue under his breath and she returned it in time. At Chekov's side Sulu was fighting to hold in a laugh, and she knew that the pilot would have a hard time getting around the _Enterprise_ after the youth reprogrammed all of his passcodes – again.

The whole assembly lit their spheres, and the lights dimmed, transforming the auditorium into a sea of stars. The effect was beautiful as they moved forward to place their orbs against the gel membrane. The surface shimmered as it drew the orb through, and as soon as the spheres were free they were claimed by space, pulled by gravity to orbit in a stream of bright light before settling amongst they repulsor core of the memorial. Eventually, when everyone had left their flames, and the ones that continued to be left over the years, the hollow structure would be filled with the small stars.

She was reminded of being a little girl again, ten, as she stood at her grandmother's funeral. The ashes had been spread into the winds of the Indian ocean off of the Kenyan shore, and her whole family had placed floating candles in the water to light her way to her rest. When she was young, the simple act was beautiful. It had yet to loose its significance now.

Spock stared at his orb for a long moment, and she could feel the swirl of emotion in him, even as he sought to hide them from her. After a surreptitious breath, he passed his orb though, and watched as it was reclaimed by the stars.

She watched him with sorrow in her eyes as he took a quick step back, the register of his voice an octave lower as he assured the Captain – yet again – of his being 'quite alright.'

Kirk flashed a glance over to her, and she offered him an uneasy smile.

In the end, she was glad when they were permitted to leave. By that time the rest of the assembled audience had lined up to offer their respects, and outside the transparent ceiling the orbs floated majestically on by. She ran a finger under the collar of her dress uniform, loosening it as she caught up with Spock. She didn't say anything – Okeon knew that he had had enough well intentioned inquiries from the crew and others alike throughout the day, but she did press her fingers against his in an unspoken support once again. There was relief in his mind as he returned the gesture, and she fought to keep from cracking a small smile at it.

The lighting ceremony was followed by a large banquet, and she wished – how she wished – that they could have spent this day quietly, just the two of them, once again.

The banquet was filled with more of the same – pretty and empty words and a parade of well wishers and dignitaries going through the motions. At some point during the evening Sarek claimed Spock's attention, and the two deep in conversation was enough to scare even the most hardened ladder climber away. She had to fight to keep her smile away as she could easily see Sarek's subtle pride and amusement – sometimes there were advantages to living so closely with Spock. It allowed her to more easily see the unseeable in others. The two shared many of the same mannerisms, and she wondered what Spock would say if she told him that.

After the banquet, that lasted much too long in her opinion, they boarded a shuttle to return to the _Enterprise_. The whole of the crew was tired in the end, and McCoy didn't even wait for the craft to completely lift off before he was undoing his collar with a grumbled curse under his breath. Kirk teased his friend good naturedly even as he loosened his own uniform. She settled for peeling off her gloves before subtly reaching over to take Spock's hand in hers, and for her that was all the relaxing that she needed.

When they debarked, Spock squeezed her hand once before drawing away. She turned to the right to go to their quarters, and blinked when Spock softly told her that he wished to walk for a little while to clear his mind. She acquiesced, and watched him leave with sad, heavy eyes.

Kirk patted her shoulder once before flashing her a sympathetic smile. And she returned it to the best of her ability.

After a moment of dallying in the corridor, she debated going after Spock or not. Finally she decided to go and change out of her dress uniform before going after him. She didn't want to push herself onto him, but at the same time, she didn't want him to wallow alone . . .

Mind made up, she returned to their quarters and gratefully discarded the overly starched uniform for a pair of sweats and a slate gray hoodie that had the Starfleet emblem embroidered in the left corner. Feeling infinitely more comfortable, she set out after Spock.

In the end, she didn't even have to consult the computer to find out where he had gone. She figured that she had a pretty good guess.

By that time, the observation deck was deserted. Behind her she gave the computer her own code to keep it that way for the next hour or so.

The lights on the deck were dimmed to a low glow, letting the brilliance of the space beyond shine through. From here it was easy to eye the floating candles that people had released into the dead space, each one marking a loved one . . . a lost one . . . or simply an acknowledgment for what had been lost for very little gain. The gravity of the monument drew in the smaller floating candles until they gathered at the 'core' like a small sun. The effect was breathtakingly beautiful in its simplicity and majesty.

She tapped a hand against the viewport, right beyond her fingers one of the small flames past, flickering in the great light that was given off by the _Enterprise_. She felt something sharp and painful gather in her chest, behind her heart, as she gazed at it.

From one of the low slung couches she heard him whisper, "Nyota," and she turned to the voice to offer a wobbly smile.

Spock was sitting on the couch closest to the center, leaning forward so that he could rest his elbows on his knees and in turn his chin on his steepled hands. His dark eyes were liquid as they focused on the memorial beyond, the starlight and shinning gold throwing his form into sharp planes of lights and darks. She let her eyes linger on him for a moment; pride and adoration sweeping through her as she admired the strong lines of his form and the way his dress uniform squared his shoulders and enhanced the long flow of his body. He was beautiful in that moment to her, even as his grief ate at her mind from where he was letting the shields in their bond slowly fall away.

Without saying anything, she walked over to him, and sat down on the couch next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, and twined her hands through his after he removed his gloves.

She stayed that way with him for a long, long time.

.

For Spock, the days leading up to the Day of Remembrance had been slow, and slightly out of synch. If he were prone to defining them as such, he would say that he almost hadn't been aware of time's passing, so surreal was the day coming up to them.

It hadn't really set in to him until he had visited New Vulcan the month prior to witness the unveiling of the rebuilt Kartric Ark. The mingled grief and hopes for the future had been a tangible thing in that room that day as a normally stoic race wore their feelings right below their faces. It had been an eye opening day for him, in more ways than one.

He knew he had been more withdrawn since that day, but in all honesty he was unsure of just how to correct it. Nyota and the Captain had worked to assist, and he was grateful for that . . . He believed that he finally understood the human term 'in a funk.'

That morning he had woken up with an odd sort of pain in his chest . . . a tightness that he had thought he had done with months earlier. Jim had given him the Alpha shift off, for which he was grateful, and he had spent most of the morning in meditation, seeking to remedy the emotions brewing tempestuously right below the surface . . .

When that had not worked he had gone through his Suus Mahna routines, which had helped, to some extent, if only to take off the edge of nervous anticipation that he felt as they drew nearer and nearer to Vulcan space.

But, most of the time, he just found himself remembering.

He remembered his mother, he remembered his home. He remembered odd moments growing up, moments that he had not thought of collectively in years. He thought of places in Vulcan – places he would have loved to show Nyota. He thought of things about Amanda that he wished that he had been able to show her . . .

Finally, after meeting with his father briefly, he brought out a storage box from the closet, the box that he had kept his mementos in from his time spent with Nyota. Inside there was a silver jewelry box. A box that he had had since before Vulcan's destruction.

Amanda had sent the trinket to him after voicing her suspicions about Nyota (too many slipped words, and an answered comm call, and that thrice cursed Kimdorian boot . . .). Her face on the message had been all smirking innocence, her head bowed as she insisted that she had no idea what he was talking about even as her eyes, her eyes (human and full of life and feeling), had winked at him.

_"I said to give them to a girl you deeply care for," Amanda had said neutrally. "I didn't say which girl – after all, you haven't told me about one, so I assume that you don't have one in mind." Those were her words, but her eyes said differently._

_In face of her very human ability to manipulate truths and half truths along with Amanda's own teasing nature, he found himself to do little other than accept the gift._

_It was a pair of Andian firestones. The stones were a smooth and polished black, created as they were by volcanic gasses and soil. Within its depths, the stone was cut to reveal an inner fire that danced like the light that one saw when one traveled too close to a star. To the touch the stone was warm, even more so to his sensitive fingers. The earrings were a rare matching set, twins cut from the same originating stone. The necklace was a large teardrop shape pendant than shone even more brilliantly than the earrings. The craftsmanship was perfect, cut by a Master from Andia's moons, and reflected a true artist's loving hand._

_Growing up, he had known Amanda to wear them at the finest occasions she attended – even over diamonds and pearls._

_"Even if there was . . . someone," and the half-truth tasted human and heavy on his tongue, "I would not be able to accept these. They are too much."_

_Amanda smiled crookedly. "Really now, it is my job to pass on treasured and nostalgic items to the next generation. I am simply fulfilling a cultural obligation."_

_"A human one," he pointed out gently, and even he could hear the teasing in his tone._

_"A very human one," she said seriously. "A very important human one. And, as that, it is up to you to assist me in carrying it out."_

_He had looked at her thoughtfully. "I shall endeavor to do my best," he said, his tone equally grave._

_"I thought you would," Amanda said, and that twinkle in her eyes was back._

_Her eyes flickered down to the pendant he held in his hands through the transmission, and her gaze softened as a wistful smile touched at her lips. While years amongst his father's people had made a graceful, soft spoken woman out of Amanda, there was still a wealth of feeling in her that she never completely hid – for anyone. In latter years, it was something that he knew Sarek cherished her for._

_"You know," she said softly, "Sarek got those for me about a month before he proposed a bonding. Apparently, so my sister told me, it took him quite some time to find something adequate. Earth's gems are beautiful, but he thought them clichéd, and the galaxy is vast. Sandra was shocked by just how many different 'options' he sent to her before settling on these." She was lost in the fondness of the memory. "Prior to that, we had debated – we never 'argued' by his definition," this was said with a roll of her eyes, "over the logicality of gifting with such a useless trinket as jewelry. I won, by the way. In a very Vulcan way he dedicated himself to fulfilling the task to the best ability that it could be done." Her eyes were misty as she spoke, far away in some memory cherished by her._

_Spock listened in silence, even as he fought the more human urge to let his lips twitch upwards. While cool to the eyes of other humans, and almost disgracefully full to his father's people, Spock knew that his parents were well suited to a most baffling extent._

_"Anyway, he's gotten better over the years," Amanda remarked. "Eventually I had to convince him not to pick something up at every different planet he visited. But this . . . it meant something. I want it to mean something for you."_

_He looked down and saw the cool stone mingling with the flames that danced so violently that the whole piece seemed to pulse with a breath of its own, and understood why it had caught his father's eye. Gently, he placed both pieces back in the case, and looked back up at his mother._

_"I shall endeavor to use it wisely," he said softly._

_"I know," Amanda said, her eyes catching his. This time, while knowing, there was nothing teasing about the gaze. She was happy for him, he knew. And she was giving her blessing._

_Amanda had perished a week later when Vulcan had fallen, and he had still not found it within himself to gift them to Nyota. He had found himself bringing them out more and more often as of late, remembering Amanda, remembering her joy and the high hopes and wishes she had felt for him . . ._

He wanted to give them to Nyota now, but a part of that felt like moving on.

He had brought the firestones with him to New Vulcan that month prior, believing it would be proper to ask Sarek his permission before giving them to Nyota. It had felt right at the moment.

Many things with his father were starting to feel that way.

_The first thing he had noticed upon spending that week with his father was that Sarek went through candles more quickly than he ever had before. The first day he had visited, the trio of koh'linar candles had been new, while the next day they had been at half mast. By the third day, Sarek was changing the candles again when he came to visit._

_Sarek had followed his gaze. "I find myself meditating more and more as of late," he murmured. While his tone was neutral, Spock could feel a vague sense of puzzled grief from where he was tuned to his father's mind. A great master of the mental arts, his control had to be low to let his son into that much of his true emotions._

_Spock had nodded as he stood there awkwardly in the center of the room, the stones held like glass in his right hand. He held them out to Sarek. "Mother gave them to me for . . ." he started to explain before his voice tapper off. Sarek nodded his understanding. "For Nyota, although she only had suspicions at the time. And yet, you have little left of Mother. I wish to offer them back to you."_

_Sarek's face was carefully neutral, his hand still as he took the stones from his son. Gently, as Spock would examine one of his science experiments, Sarek turned them over in his hold, watching the way the flames played with the black encasing it with captivated eyes. Amanda had held the stones that way often, and Spock wondered if he could feel the emotions left behind on the stones . . . he himself was not Vulcan enough for that kind of control over his empathy, but Sarek was._

_After a moment, Sarek enclosed his hand over them completely and looked up at his son. After a breath just deep enough to be noticed, he handed them back. "Amanda wished for you to have them. I would not impinge that wish, or that memory."_

_Spock looked down, "Father," he started, and suddenly he wanted to argue that Sarek take them. The level of understanding he shared with his father, as new as it was, was refreshing, and he wished to deepen it. "You have nothing left of Mother . . . " Any keepsake from Vulcan would have been gone, save for the little Amanda had offplanet on Earth and in other smaller locations._

_Sarek looked at him for a long moment. He looked as if he would say something, but then thought better of it. He raised a hand to tap his temple. "I have enough, here. Your mother and I . . ."_

_Spock nodded, and had to work to cut down on his own emotions. Amanda, human though she was, had taken to her bond with her husband with a surprising compatibility. It would take time, even after that bond was snapped, for her presence in Sarek's mind to completely fade . . ._

_Sarek blinked, as if shaking away whatever he had been about to say. "I am not nostalgic. I do not need an actual object to remember her. To do so would be . . . " he searched for the right word._

_"Illogical?"_

_"Yes," Sarek gave. "Either way, it was Amanda's wish that you give these to Miss Uhura, and I would find honor in the act as well. Do so with them as your Mother intended."_

_Spock looked at his father for a moment, weighing his options, before nodding. "Thank-you, Father," he said softly._

_Sarek nodded, short and clipped, and Spock turned to take his leave._

_Before leaving, Spock turned to look over his shoulder to find Sarek already turning to the meditation mat he had out in the middle of the common area. Sarek paused after lighting the koh'linar candles, and then tilted his head, as if in thought. A moment later, he went over to bring out a forth candle, a rich tan wax that smelled like Kallin vanilla and cinnamon – a candle that Amanda had often lit on Vulcan, giving their home a warm, earthen scent. Gently, reverently, Sarek placed it down next to the dwindling trio of Vulcan candles, and then lit that one as well._

_It smelled like memory, and for a moment, Spock stared, caught in a grief that was even larger than his._

_The memories had been heavy in his mind as they boarded the shuttle for the observation platform. The Sphere, as it had taken to being simply called, was a bright and elegant piece of craftsmanship, and he felt his emotions weigh heavily on him as he had gazed upon it for the first. It had been odd flying through the space around Vulcan . . . an invisible graveyard for billions, with nothing to show for it save what others had built to commemorate it._

_His hand had shaken as he had lit his own sphere, even though he believed he had hid it well enough. While he felt almost ridiculously sentimental as he pressed the sphere to the space beyond, a part of him had felt a relief in the small act of remembrance._

He had waited to leave until his father had lit his own, and had fought a pained upturn of his lips when he realized that Sarek had requested a sphere with Kallin wax at the center. The small token was an indulgence brought on by years with a human wife, but no one – Vulcan or otherwise, dared to say anything to it.

The rest of the proceedings had passed like a blur, his eyes and thoughts on the great metal monument above even as the rest of him went through the motions. The whole of the time through he had registered Nyota and her support as a vague feeling of warmth outside his senses, and for that he was so very grateful, even though he believed that he did little to convey that to her throughout the evening.

By the time they returned to the _Enterprise_, he was mentally drained and physically on edge. He needed to walk, and was not surprised when his feet took him to the observation deck. It was as if he could not keep his way from where his world used to be . . .

He was not surprised when Nyota joined him a few minutes later, dressed comfortably in her normal after-shift wear. He could feel her eyes on him, concern and sympathy leaking to him from where he was fighting less and less to keep their bond devoid of any intense feeling. (His own way of keeping his composure the whole day through). She understood, as she always did, as she walked over to sit next to him. Her head on his shoulder, and her hands twining through his, letting him reopen their mental connection through the touch . . . He didn't realize how much he had come to depend on her, at times.

She smiled, and he could feel it against his skin. She was close enough that he could feel her chest rise and fall with each breath, he could feel the pulse at her wrist, and it helped anchor him.

A moment later she asked, "How are you holding up?"

And he was able to answer, "As well as can be expected."

"That's good to hear," she whispered, and she tilted her head up to better see the Sphere they were orbiting.

"It's lovely," she said gently. "I didn't think it would be so . . . but it is."

"It is . . ." he found himself devoid of a word to aptly describe what he was feeling. "Acceptable," he finally gave.

"Over the top?" she questioned.

"Fitting," he finally settled on.

"Fascinating?"

"Most decidedly so," he agreed, and felt her shimmer with a silent laugh.

"We used to do something similar," she said softly, her breath a warm thing against his uniform. "I remember when my grandmother died . . . she wanted her ashes to be scattered over the ocean – she was the first traveler in our family, you see. I remember that everyone who gathered to see her off lit a candle and floated it over the waves with her . . . like we were following her, as illogical as that sounded."

"A tradition I have heard of," he gave.

She smiled a crooked smile. "I'm just glad you have a place to mourn at . . . remember at. For all of you. Even those of you who say you don't need it."

He imagined the roll of her eyes, even as he squeezed his hands over hers. Her subtle humor was catching, pushing his grief into that odd fondness of memory that he wasn't quite sure how to handle yet . . .

A part of him says that this is moving on, looking at the empty space over Vulcan, and feeling only an aching sort of pain and a more pressing pass of memory . . .

It was that thought that moved him to reach inside the pocked of his uniform and withdraw a long silver box . . . the same box that he had hid from her earlier. He had meant to wait a little longer . . . til perhaps a time where he wasn't so caught up in his losses and she wasn't quite dressed in sweats . . . But this felt right; fitting, even. He wishes to fill this day with happier things, and remember those things in years to come.

Nyota was watching him with careful, considerate eyes. "What do you have there?" she asked lightly.

"Something I have been meaning to give to you for quite some time," he said softly as he passed the case to her.

Tilting a brow, her lips a thin line as she darted a glance at him and then at the box she was holding, she felt along the smooth surface with a curious finger. "Spock," she breathed, and he felt her unease . . . she wasn't expecting anything from him, and now, of all times . . .

"Open it," he implored, pushing an assurance towards her mind, "and I believe you will understand."

Her curiosity won over, and she thumbed open the lid with a careful hand. Upon seeing what rested inside, her eyes widened as her breath caught. He felt her rush of amazement and astonishment against his mind, and had to fight a smile of his own.

"Spock," she breathed. "These are . . . these are Andian, aren't they? Not some knock-off . . . they must have cost a fortune . . . the lines in these . . . a master hand."

He raised a brow of his own.

She flushed. "Gaila . . ." she murmured. "She had a liking for things like these."

"Your friend had wise taste," he commented.

She glanced up at him before returning her attention to the box in her hands. "These . . . they are too much . . ."

"That is what I said."

She looked at him with a question.

"They were my Mother's," Spock explained, and felt as her amazement dipped under the weight of that knowledge.

"Spock, I can't possibly," she went on to protest.

"And Amanda wished for me to give them to you."

Nyota gazed at him curiously. "Me?" she repeated.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"But . . ." she faltered. He knew that she had been aware of Amanda's suspicions, but not the height or breadth of them . . .

He reached over to draw the pendant from the case, and moved the stray strands of her hair gently out of the way as he clasped it around her neck. As he did, he spoke, "My father gave these to my mother while they were courting. In many ways I believe that they were symbolic of middle grounds, and things of the like . . ."

She looked at the cool tones encasing the violent flames, and understood.

"When she made her assumptions about you, she sent them to me before I had time to challenge or correct them . . . She died before I gave them to you, and since then . . ." his words faltered off, but he didn't need to finish. She understood.

He watched the awe on her face as she gently touched the pendant. "How did she know?" she asked softly.

"Your roommate's boots were left behind once," he said on a small whisper. At the time she had had enough belongings in his quarters for her to slip out in something more comfortable than she had came in with. "One was in a more obvious place, and seeing as how they were quite far from my tastes in footwear . . ."

"On you anyway," she replied teasingly. "I believed you rather enjoyed them at the time."

His eyes flashed as memory flickered across his mind . . . long legs made longer by red leather and that dappled, almost faux pattern . . . His hands undoing the buckles one at a time . . .

"They were adequate," he said neutrally.

She laughed lightly, and the sound was welcome after a day of weighty things. "I believe that I still have them somewhere," she mused thoughtfully. "Gaila gave them to me even before . . ." her voice tapered off, and she bit her lip. But past the grief that entered her voice whenever she mentioned her roommate, there was also a fondness there. The adoration of memory over the weight of grief.

It is a balance he wishes to learn from.

"You know," she mused thoughtfully, "I haven't worn them since we left Earth . . . Maybe I could bring them out again."

"I would not object," he said levelly.

"Of course not," she purred as she leaned in to kiss him. He was quick to return the gesture, twining his hand up into her still styled hair while she sighed against his mouth. In the end the moment was soft between them, healing things over thoughts of the future and the weight of the past . . .

He doesn't tell her that while he misses Vulcan – will always miss Vulcan - he doesn't miss it like a wanderer would miss a home. He doesn't miss it like beginning point to return to after straying away. He misses it like a memory, a representation of everything that had made up his years before Starfleet.

He doesn't miss Vulcan like a home, because he had long before since found a home in her.

She heard the thought from his mind more clearly than if it had been uttered by his lips, and she pulled away to look fondly at him, her eyes full.

When she curled up against his side again to watch the candles float to their destination past the viewport, he held her to him, stroking a hand fondly through her hair. The firestones were warm between them, catching their heat and amplifying it. Nyota kept on holding the pendant between curious and reverent fingers, even as her eyes flickered closed and he could feel her mind drift off and away from him.

He continued holding her, watching the Enterprise gave a low shudder as she jumped to warp.

Then gently, the stars faded away.


End file.
